


The New World

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Series: The New World [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: All the warnings, Canon Divergence Post Season Three, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Colonialism, Enemies to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Just All Of Them, M/M, Pirates, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 133,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: There are men undeserving of second chances. Sometimes they receive them nonetheless.





	1. Autumn: Exile

**Author's Note:**

> Like I keep threatening, here is my Black Sails fic.  
> For those of you who have found this because you are fans of the show (fucking gay pirates for life), this is set some months after the end of season three, the premise being that Flint has been deposed as captain of the Walrus in favour of Silver and has opted to start over once again in the colonies. If you think that is wildly out of character for Flint, I hope you'll still give the story a shot and see how he ended up in this place.  
> For those of you who are reading because you have enjoyed my other stories, I would not say that you have to be the world's biggest Black Sails fan to understand what's going on. I fill in a lot of the blanks for new readers with journal entries, but I'd suggest giving Flint/McGraw's backstory a once over on the Black Sails Wiki at least. Also, I know you're used to the level of violence in my stories, but this fandom takes it to kind of another level. I know, you're saying, "I remember what you did to Brooklyn--how could it be worse?"  
> Well.  
> Here is the big warning to keep folks away if this is not your thing: trigger warnings for everything. Just everything. There is graphic violence throughout, but I would describe it as canon typical. The body count is fairly high. This story has animal death, both violent and natural. Children are endangered and injured. Surgery is described. Previous incidents of rape and domestic abuse are mentioned but do not occur in the present timeline of the story. The story is set in 1720s New Hampshire, so expect period typical attitudes about people of colour, women, and people of different religions. Some racial and ethnic epithets are used, but sparingly.  
> So if you don't think you can deal with those things, this is not the story for you.  
> If you can, strap in for 132 000 words worth of blood, remorse, redemption, monsters, and second (or third, or fourth) chances.

AUTUMN

Dipping the quill into the pot, he brushes the excess ink against the edge, then leans over the large leather-bound book. The first page lays before him, blank and waiting.

            Upon the first available space, to the upper and left, he writes, _September 13, 1720_. Then he stops.

He looks at the words upon the page. He is unsure of what next to say. Really, he had only gotten so far as the whim to open the journal. The book has been in his possession some months now, a purchase made with little thought and less intention. He has kept a log before, but that was of course by necessity. This is something different, now that he is faced with the truth of the thing.

            And the truth of the thing is that it is two inches thick, nothing but white pages whose only purpose is to be filled.

            He sits back in his chair. The quill rests on his hand, and he gazes at the journal, wondering if it would be for the better to put the thing away. Place it on the shelf with his small collection of books, and chalk this up to an ill-considered notion.

            A bird trills just beyond his window. He looks through the muddied glass, unable to see the thing. He does not know the animals here. Very little about this place he finds himself in is familiar.

            And it has been so very quiet.

            With a quick sniff, he leans forward, shoulders still straight, and begins to write.

 

_It is twelve days since I arrived in this house. I have not said a word, and wonder if I should lose the use of my voice, if this state continues. This vexes me little, as I have no desire to commune with the nearby inhabitants of the village. I have not come here to begin again; I have come here in retreat._

_It is eight months since the vote that cast me aside in favour of Silver. It is three and a half months since I reconciled myself to the truth: that all I struggled and fought for those many years was folly. It is twenty odd days since I made port and began my journey inland, towards this place at Mr. Evers’ recommendation._

_For twelve days, I have done little beyond try to salvage this small house that I purchased at what I will admit was a fair price. The property is meager but suits my needs. I intend only to remain here until I can determine my next_

 

He pauses. With a slight crinkle of the brow, he strikes through the last sentence.

 

_I do not know how long I shall remain here. In the meantime, I have repaired the roof, patched the holes in the walls, rehinged the doors, and most importantly have done something about the fences. There is the gate at the road that leads to the house, and a small fence that surrounds the building itself. The latter comes no higher than my knee, and would certainly do nothing to repel invaders, but I find it gives me some small measure of comfort._

_While I was repairing the gate at the entrance to the property, several people passed me by on the road. One tried conversation, but was quickly dissuaded from the attempt by my lack of response. The others merely nodded, saying, ‘Sir.’ I think that perhaps they can sense him on me. I wore the other for so long that maybe there is no being rid of him, no matter what I might have claimed in the past. Those to whom I promised such an endeavour have gone. I have no one now to keep promises to. This is a satisfaction, as well as a strangeness._

_The man who lived before me in this place was named Henderson. As I understand it, he was a cooper who contracted a pox and perished not ten feet from where I now sit. He was unmarried and childless. The house had remained empty for a year until my arrival. It is unattractive to the locals due to being so far from the center of town. I am the furthest from village that one could be while still considered part of the township. The others live in homes and businesses that cluster outwards from their meetinghouse or more importantly the tavern. They live in fear of the previous occupants of this land, who I have yet to encounter._

_As it stands, I feel more that I am in the wilderness than in anything resembling civilization. I see no one, and the house is surrounded by trees. There is the occasional animal, I know not what, that cries out in the night. Sometimes, when there is a wind, I will in the evening hear some soul playing a fiddle, but it is a mournful thing, and I do not welcome its song. I admit that I have placed myself somewhere quite bleak and unfamiliar._

_This was in fact my intention. Is this not where a man in exile should be? Where nothing is known, and there are few friendly faces?_

_I must admit that the last few years of my life have been devoid of friendship. Since_

 

His instrument stops again. A small blot begins to dot the page. Lifting the quill, he frowns at the now permanent stain. If he looks at this page again, he will see the exact place where he hesitated.

            Shaking his head, he continues, writing her name in distinct, solid letters.

 

_Miranda, I have not known companionship. Every encounter has been an ever shifting play of allies and enemies. Since her death, I have not known love, and have encountered or granted others little in the way of kindness. I was so set on my ambitions that I thought nothing of such things. I am unsure if I even think of them now. Only I remember that they were things I once had, and now lack. I am now without even the familiar._

_There is now only time. It stretches before me, limitless and unknown. For so long I lived beneath the crushing pressure of time. I did not realize there could be something more terrible: a life without purpose._

It is too much.

            He drops the quill to the side of the journal, self-disgust creeping inside, and closes the pot of ink. Falling back in his seat, he shakes his head. This is one _hell_ of a sad state of affairs he has found himself in. Revealing himself to a journal, of all things.

            He pushes himself up from the chair, and walks across the boarded floor of the small home. It sat untouched for a year, yes, but it was well constructed. It was only superstition that kept people from occupying the place—well, that and fear for their safety.

            But the property is located between the village and the road east. There is no road from the village west. This is the edge of where the English have gone. If the natives ever strike, as the villagers fear, it will be from the west.

            He doesn’t fear the Indians. Or the villagers.

            Or being alone, for that matter. Or even the quiet.

            It takes two turns before he realizes that he is pacing. He comes up abruptly, then scratches his brow. God, this is going to be an excellent way to go stark raving mad, is it not? All alone in the woods, far from the sea, from people, from _everything_.

            The part of him that reigned for more than a decade insists this is a terrible idea. That there is still a chance to take it _all_. However, the him that came before—it tells him to stay in place. After all, is this not deserved?

            He walks over and sits down heavily on the side of his bed. It creaks perilously beneath him. That is almost a relief. It means a project. Something to put his hands to.

            Will that be how he passes the time? Should he be a carpenter, like his father before him? It’s a profession he ran from decades ago. It sounds rather grim. Like walking backwards through time into a box that was made for him at birth.

            But if not that, what? He will have to choose something. Winter will come soon here, and he has been told they can be a terror. He has the money to live long and comfortably, if he is careful, without choosing a profession. However, he cannot imagine a life where he is idle. The thought makes his skin crawl.

            He rests his elbows on his thighs, bending over in thought. His black trousers are about to wear through at the knees. The black shirt he wears over it is not much better. Pushing up his sleeves, he ponders what could possibly come next in this place. It feels like an impasse and also too much possibility.

            For the moment, he decides nothing. He will be idle. Pulling his legs onto the bed, he lays back, though it is not yet mid-day, and stares blankly at the ceiling.

            It is silent. The ground beneath him is disturbingly solid.

            It is so hard to sleep without the sea lulling him to dream.

 

It is a little less than an hour later that he hears the approach of hooves on the path.

            Rolling upwards, he looks with irritation towards the door. Perhaps he needs to make the gate somewhat more intimidating, to ward off visitors. There can be no doubt that everything he has done since arriving here has been designed to keep the others at a distance.

            He is unsure how firmly he will be expected to reinforce the request.

            Standing, he strides over to the door, opening it. A breeze slips past him, and he can hear the leaves shiver all about him. There are different colours here than he is used to. In the south, there was little more than green and blue, and at sea, nothing _but_ blue. Sky and ocean, endless, intermingling.

            Here, the trees are moving from green into shades of red and gold almost shocking in their vibrancy. He noticed it, briefly, upon his arrival, but it has not been a thing he has paid attention to since. Instead, it sits at the back of his head, another thing about this world that is not quite—right.

            Instead, James watches the man on horseback come down the lane. He makes no effort to move from the doorway, watching with unblinking eyes at the stranger’s approach.

            It is informal out here. The one time he ventured into town, he saw no wigs, though he did spot several hats. The man wears a simple tricorn hat with no embellishment, though from his clothes James can discern this is not a lower class man. Not exactly upper, either. He wears a pale waistcoat and brown breeches, but no cloak or coat.

            The horse is a giveaway too. James spent too much money on a fine stud that caught his eye when he came ashore. It is the only true extravagance he has allowed himself. The stranger, however, rides a horse that is unfortunate at best. A mare with stubby legs, meant for very, very little.

            James stays in the doorway of the house, crossing his arms. The stranger approaches the fence that surrounds the house, and pulls up gently on the mare’s reins. Dismounting, he gives her an affectionate pat, then comes to stand outside the fence, adjusting a satchel across his shoulders.

            He looks at James straight on, with none of the fear or apprehension or curiousness he has experienced from almost every other person he has encountered these past few months. Tilting his head, the stranger says with a polite smile, “Mr. Moore, I presume.”

            The voice is as large an indicator as anything else. Mannered, words carefully chosen and confident. If four words are all that is required, James would say London born, firmly middle class. No higher than that—anyone above would not have been so polite.

            James says nothing, and the man raises his brows ever so slightly. He is slim, with dark eyes and hair. He has a nose that hooks a little. His face is strange in a way that James does not wish to examine. Not displeasing, just out of place.

            Everything here is so out of place.

            Undeterred, the man says, “I thought to introduce myself, sir. You and I are neighbours.” He nods to the west. “Ezra Wake. I’m the apothecary.”

            He waits for James to respond, but James just gives a single nod. If the man wants more, he may wait until the end times.

            Wake looks about, seemingly unperturbed by James’ hostile silence. “I see that you have performed some repairs upon the place since your arrival. I am most pleased by that. Mr. Henderson did take great pride in this patch of land.”

His eyes find James again. James says nothing.

            Wake simply smiles, and opens his satchel. “I know you will think this most presumptuous of me, sir, but I noted that perhaps you did not have the time before your arrival to secure dress more appropriate to the climate. Forgive my forwardness, but I thought to lend you a few articles until you had such time as to secure something more fitting.”

            He withdraws a little stack of clothing from his bag, and takes the few steps to the gate. Reaching across it, he drops them lightly onto the ground, where James assumes the garden is supposed to be.

            That done, Wake steps away, and inclines his head once more. “I’ll leave you be, Mr. Moore. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

            He turns and walks back to his horse, holding a hand out to her. The horse steps towards him willingly, almost happily.

            James is crossing the space between the door and the fence. “This,” he says, sweeping up the clothes in one hand, “will not be necessary.”

            He drops them back on the other side of the fence, turning away.

            Presumptuous. That would be one goddamn word for it. The last thing he needs is—

            “Consider yourself part of a crew.”

            James freezes, almost on his doorstep.

            When he turns back around, his tone is quiet, but those who knew him would not have dared speak another word. “I beg your pardon.”

            Wake has bent down, picking the clothes back up. He carefully brushes the dust from them with the back of his hand, repeating almost nonchalantly, “Consider yourself part of a crew.” He raises his eyes. “A metaphor, Mr. Moore, if you would indulge me.”

            James finds himself moving several steps back towards the man, and has to make himself stop.

            “Or rather—consider yourself a stowaway. Perhaps that will be more apt for the point I wish to make. You are the stowaway on a merchant vessel, and after two days at sea, you find yourself uncovered.” His eyes do a sweep of James, and Wake says, “Oh—perhaps by the salt on your trousers, you might have some idea of what I speak.”

            Not for a moment does James think Wake just noticed. He has gone from irritated to furious to wary in record time. If he looked down, he would see that his long fingers are straining to form fists.

            Patting his other hand on top of the clothes, Wake continues, “So two days at sea, and you find yourself discovered. You worry at first about the consequences of your actions. What will happen to you now—what is to become of me? But the captain says that perhaps this is providence. They are one man short, and now here you are. You begin to work with the crew, and you notice quite quickly that it does not appear they are down one man at all. You’re an addition, but not a needed one. It is the strangest thing, is it not, Mr. Moore? It seems illogical. That they should welcome you amongst their ranks.”

            James takes another step toward the fence. Wake is unmoved, looking as calm as if they were discussing the changing of the leaves.

            “At first you react with suspicion. Why this kindness? How does it benefit them? It must benefit them in some way. I am not needed, and yet I am kept.” Wake raises his slender shoulders. “And yet, as time passes, you find that these fears fade. You cease to question the hows and whys, and simply live in the world you have found yourself in. Perhaps you enjoy it, perhaps you loathe it. No matter the case, these people you have been surrounded by are your crew. You are responsible for them, though you did not ask for it. You do as they do, you are concerned for their welfare, because their survival is your survival, and vice versa. On the seas, it is considered crew. Here it is community. We do not draw undue attention to ourselves, no matter how attractive that might seem in a moment of self-pity.”

            Now James has taken two steps, so that he is nearly at the fence. Self-pity? Who in the hell is this man and what does he think he is talking about? _Who_ does he think he is addressing? No one would dare speak to him like this, not—

            Wake meets his glare steadily, and James sees for the first time that the man does not fear him. In the least. It takes him off his guard. He cannot remember the last time the sight of himself did not instinctively strike fear into other men. He does not care for this. At all.

            The man’s dark eyes are almond shaped, and strange. Almost Oriental. He is a question, and right now James has no patience for questions.

            Voice low, Wake says, “If you intend to stay in that house, you will act accordingly. You may not have meant for it to happen, but by proximity you are now part of this community. That means not attracting the attention of outside parties. Your actions affect the lives of forty six people, myself included, and I drew the straw for having to speak to you in a manner you could understand. So, sir—“

He tosses the clothes easily past James, and they land with a thump on the dirt. James does not move his gaze from Wake.

            Leaning forward, Wake says, “Put on the goddamn clothes and make the barest amount of effort.” With that, he turns and walks away. Over his shoulder, he says, “As it stands, you look as though you’re about to murder someone, and you are frightening the children.”

            He swings up onto the horse as James quietly seethes. Why is he not going over there, pummeling the man within an inch of his life?

            _Because we are not that man anymore._

            “I will expect their return once you find something more suitable.” Wake touches his hat. “Mr. Moore,” he says, then turns the mare and gives her the lightest of kicks. She takes off at a canter, blessedly removing Wake from his land.

            James stands there until he is out of sight, then turns around and storms inside. He slams the door after himself.

 

Night fall arrives, and he is still stewing over the encounter with the presumptuous bastard from down the road, when he begins to hear the words, almost a whisper, at the back of his mind.

            _Nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him, for we are made for co-operation, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of upper and lower teeth. To act against one another then is contrary to nature; and it is acting against one another to be vexed and turn away._

He shakes his head, having another sip from his pewter cup. The words are ingrained upon his consciousness like the tattoos some of his men wore. Sometimes the words seem more permanent than the scars he has accumulated across the decades.

            The whisper sounds like Thomas—it often does—and he does what he can to ignore it. He is still eating hardtack, because it is at least a known quantity, and he needs that now. Something, anything, that he can touch or taste or feel and not react with dismay.

            James puts his head down, taking a bite. And yet, still the damned words come.

            _This thou must always bear in mind, what is the nature of the whole_ , _and what is my nature, and how this is related to that—_

He bites into his lower lip, trying to think of something else. A song he knows. How to season and roast a pig. Anything. Anything whatsoever.

            _And what kind of a part it is of what kind of a whole; and that there is no one that hinders thee from always doing and saying the things which are according to the nature of which thou art a part_.

            Smacking his hands down against the sturdy table, he abruptly pushes back and rises to his feet. He walks outside, snatching the clothes off the ground, then strides back inside, locking the door against the evening.

            He returns to the table, sitting down with a sigh. By the flickering light of the candle, he goes through the articles left behind for him.

            Yes, he knew it was arrogance, and foolishness, not to have changed his dress since leaving the Bahamas. However, it is one thing to shed one’s identity, and another to do it all at once. He failed at the latter. He still wears his leather boots. He is in _trousers_ , for heaven’s sakes.

            James props up his head, embarrassed by himself. He is a great many things, and most of them are regrettable in the eyes of the general populace. One thing he is not is a fool. The problem, though, is that he has acted like one. It is one thing to request privacy. It is another to do so while looking….

            _Like a pirate_.

            A white shirt, tan breeches, and a grey waistcoat. Cotton and wool. Stockings. He honestly cannot remember the last time he wore clothes such as these. Well over a decade. He has worn sailcloth at sea, coated in pitch when battles came. He has worn leather. It has always been black.

            But apparently he scares the children.

            _Of course you do. You are a monster. Is it not right that you act the part?_

If he acts the part, he will be found out. Had he wanted to be discovered by the authorities, he could have turned himself in at any point between Nassau and the sliver of the New Hampshire coast. He has had many, many opportunities to fall upon his sword, and avoided them.

            The clothes—it has been a petty rebellion. One that is beneath him.

            He holds up the waistcoat. It looks as though it will fit nicely. It certainly does not belong to the infuriating bastard who showed up on his doorstep, who is more slight than he. James has to wonder how many people were involved in the endeavour.

            _To act against one another_ —

            “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he growls. To the empty house, he speaks in defeat. “Fine. Are you happy? _Fine_.”

            Talking to oneself, a thousand miles from home. Yes—this is a recipe for madness.


	2. The Usurper

_September 14, 1720_

_I woke early this morning from a dream about Silver. Once I did, I began to list all the occasions I had to kill him and failed._

_From the beginning. From the moment I knew he had lied, that he had the schedule. I caught his eye from across the ship before he leapt, and I misjudged. I thought him a foolish rake. Perhaps then he was. It is hard at times to work out the truth of that man. That moment before he leapt from the ship (incidentally landing flat on his stomach upon the surface of the water) I thought him easy prey. When he struck the water so inelegantly I thought for sure that he would be easily captured, and even more easily compelled to turn over the schedule. I was utterly certain I had him in my grasp._

_Then the disaster upon the wrecks. That should have been my first indication that he would be a far more formidable foe than previously anticipated. I chased him down like a hare, thinking him no more than a fop who had overestimated himself. My God, that ridiculous jacket of his. How could I think otherwise? But when I held him in my grasp, demanded the schedule of him, only to have him tell me that he had memorized the thing, and burned the page—that should have been the moment._

_I should have killed him then. Tortured him first, despite his demurrals that he would say absolutely anything under torture, and that the information would be of no use. Years after the fact, seeing the man walk around with that pustulent stump of his shoved into its boot, I saw how great his resolve was. He played the weak man well, and I was blinded by his performance. My anger and desperation to get to the gold blinded me to a great deal, and I was all too willing to believe that this long haired rake in his ridiculous coat would be of little use if pressed._

_So I let him live, unmolested. Chained in Eleanor Guthrie’s tavern, perhaps, but considering what I have done to better men than he, it was practically a gift._  

_That is the moment I should have broken him. If it had taken days to get the truth from him, it would have been better than that which followed. I would have beaten or broken the truth from the bastard, and then I would have cut his head clear from his body._

_The next moment was when we returned, and Eleanor interceded on his behalf. She bade me not to kill him, as he had been useful to her in some endeavour. She was perhaps our most powerful ally at the time, though with her ambitions it does not surprise me that she ended up on the side of the island’s governor. Eleanor would do anything to achieve her ends, and for a time they coincided with mine. So when she requested that I not kill Silver upon delivery of the schedule, I agreed. I believed him a schemer, yes, but I thought he was harmless enough. Just another man in search of his fortune._

_I could have killed him upon his first clumsy attempt to foment a split between myself and the crew. Did I tell him instantly that I would not fall prey to his efforts? I did. But what he said—Billy and Morley speaking late at night—it did pique my interest. Even as I recognized his machinations for what they were, I fell for them. If at that time I had kept him at a distance, perhaps I would have been able to avoid what came after. As it was, I had to know what he had heard. As soon as he mentioned Miranda, I was lost. The thought that my men gossiped about her, saying she was a witch, I was aware of that, but the tenor of this seemed different. More of a threat around the edges. Given the precarious position I found myself with Billy after the blank page, I had to be sure of his loyalties. It turned out that Silver had been right to warn me, and so he had me. It was the first time I trusted him. What an error in judgment I made._

_And Gates, the timing of the thing. Mr. Gates. My friend. It had to of course be Silver who came upon me seconds after the act was done, when my position was so precarious. I was still weeping for my friend, my friend who I had murdered, when Silver came upon me. I would have given it all up then. I think in that moment I was James McGraw again. Flint committed the deed, but it was McGraw who was left to deal with the consequences, and the man I was, that I fear I no longer am, would go no further. He was prepared to be done. I even said to Silver that there was no way out. And he said, “Trust me. There’s always a way out.” Then I was Flint again, so ready to return to my cause that I did not realize how much further I had let myself fall into Silver’s grasp._

_I let him worm his way in. I did, even as I claimed his manipulations did little upon me. My experience had not prepared me for a man such as John Silver. My many years in the navy were ones of discipline, and hard work. I did not trifle myself with politics or glad handing. There are those born into similar stations as mine who weasel their way upwards, garnering favours and playing the great elaborate game of ambition. That was not what I wanted. I thought to prove myself by virtue of my deeds. It seems a naïve sentiment now, but it took me considerably further than those who rose and fell on the good opinion of a superior. I built myself an unassailable reputation. Until the day I no longer did._

_The third age of my life was spent amongst men who were too stupid to do anything but follow, or those with a certain kind of animal intelligence that helped them scrabble to the top of the heap. The vast majority were the former, but of the latter there were men like Charles Vane. A brutal bastard, more frequently my enemy than my ally, but I respected him. I hated him fiercely because he stymied me on more than one occasion, but I admired that this uneducated man, little more than a barbarian, had survived as much by his wits as his cruelty. In his last moments, he showed that he was a man of honour. He went willingly to his death to further our cause._

_It is most queer to admit that we failed Charles Vane instead of the other way around. I suppose if I see him in hell, we shall exchange words on the topic, and perhaps more than words._

_But the men I dealt with in my third life—not the common rabble—the captains, men who meant to be captains and knew that they could, they lived more by instinct than because of a firm grounding in letters. They were for the most part men with little schooling, children of the sea who had become masters by a matter of innate intelligence. I did not fear those men, because I had little fear of anything save myself, and I did not fear the navy men, for I knew their kind. I thought I knew the manner of enemies I faced._

_In my arrogance I did not prepare for John Silver._

_I know little of where he comes from. I know that the man does not even truly care for the sea. A captain who does not care for the sea. It seems an impossibility. Another mark in the column that branded him as an occasional ally and not competition._

_There was still the opportunity to keep him at a distance, but after Charles Town—when I saw that he had given his leg rather than give up the crew—his sacrifice was a small glimmer of light. After all that had happened, I cannot describe the thoughts I had. To know, however, that this once untrustworthy rake had given a limb to protect his brothers—I was proud when the others elected him quartermaster. Honest and true, I was proud of the bastard. But this is how blinded I was by that sacrifice—I took him at his word when he confessed to me that the gold had not gone from the island. I believed him when he said that scout had lied to us all, and only admitted his sin before dying._

_I pride myself on being fooled by little, but the fact that I believed his flimsy lie—perhaps I was not fit for the position. I can rail against Silver all I please, but looking at these words is a stark reminder of my failings. It takes two men to lie: one to tell the thing, and one to believe him._

_He even put himself in a position to be felled by my blade, or my hands, had I been so inclined. When we were becalmed, and the two of us rowed to that whale, and he confessed his part in the deception. That it had been he all along who stole the gold. He had tricked me, he had gotten one over on me, and he was telling me as a test. He even said that he knew he was putting himself in a position to either be killed or be accepted._

_We know, unfortunately, the decision I made._

_He had destroyed my chance for a strong Nassau. A nation that could be free of the yoke of England, once and for all. A place for free men. It had been the goal I worked ceaselessly towards, an aim begun in my second life and carried with a vengeance into the third. John Silver had betrayed me. Betrayal was the basis of our partnership. In that moment, though, I merely thought him bold. For telling me in such a state. I could have killed him, surely. I knew he had not been taking the rations given to him. He had protested my plan to feed only some of the men. He was weak, and it would have taken nothing, even in the state I myself was in, to have ended his life. I let him live._

_I am astonished at my acceptance of him afterwards. I placed my trust in him. After all that had come before, I actually allowed myself to trust him. He had given me almost no reason to, and yet I relied on him. I told him once that he would never be allowed inside my head. It took shockingly little effort for him to accomplish the feat, in the end. He came up on me from a point I did not see. He came from behind._

_The night before we fought with the Maroons, he and I spoke. It was a strange conversation, and perhaps the point at which I should have truly known how this would end. He said that he wanted to know how all of this had begun. So I told him. I told him everything. Miranda and Thomas, Lord Alfred Hamilton, Ashe, the whole bloody mess. I told him about James McGraw. This man who would be my end brought me to a point where I trusted him with knowledge that none left living save myself were aware of._

_What manner of man is he, that I lowered my guard so perilously? I thought so poorly of him from the start, and my estimation of him raised so greatly that it makes ill sense to me now. I look back and see how grave my missteps. Had I not trusted John Silver, perhaps I would not be stuck in this place, an exile from the only life I now know._

_He saw in that moment what I would not. Even more peculiar, he told me what he assertained. He realized that one day he would succeed me. My hold on my men was always through fear. It is how I was trained, it is how all great captains keep a crew together amidst the many dangers that face a vessel at sea. It is the only way I know how to lead, and God grant me that there are a great many merchant and navy men who were far harsher masters than I. Still, it never occurred to me to cultivate the men’s loyalty through anything beyond fear, and perhaps a begrudging respect for my unassailable skills as a strategist and seaman._

_When Silver told me how he would succeed me, I laughed. I am not, of course, a man given to laughter, but he did make me smile when he told me. He said that not only did the men fear him, but they loved him. They obeyed him from fear, yes. We were hardly removed from the night when he stomped through Dufresne’s head in front of all the patrons of Guthrie’s tavern. Only he was set to prove to me that the men would be loyal to him out of love. They needed to prove themselves to him._

_And I did smile and think him a fool. I made some comment about liking my chances if the day ever came when the choice was between he and I. But if I search through my memories, I can picture the look on his face. He smiled as well, but there was a graveness to him. He knew that night what I would refuse to believe for some time after that._

_Imagine my surprise when we left the island only for ‘Long John Silver’ to be named the hero of the day. Of the rebellion I had so long strived and sacrificed for. In our absence, Billy Bones had done all in his power to create a legend that swiftly took root. Even now, I do not believe Silver instigated this. He was as taken aback as I to discover what Billy had done. Silver cursed him something fearsome, and Billy was apologetic in words but not about the eyes. I can not claim to have not seen Billy’s betrayal. Not after what happened in the storm, nor what I did to Mr. Gates. He claimed that it was necessary to gather the people behind a lesser known man, a man who could be more myth than reality. Silver was the answer, he insisted. I was far better known, yes, but my missteps were also well known._

_Billy said to me, “They fear you. But they will respect him.”_

_That was the first moment. I felt it then: the end. What Silver had said to me in confidence only days earlier was being borne out._

_No, I thought, it is coincidence. They are being naïve. They are young. Most men in this line of work, they are twenty years younger than I. Youth is so frequently devoid of wisdom. That was what I thought. Or perhaps it was a different perspective: I believed my years gave me knowledge. I thought I understood the world in which I navigated._

_Only the world had shifted so perilously beneath our feet, and I did not recognize the permanence of it. My sense of focus has been a quality that perhaps aided me the most in my ascent. But focus untempered can become blindness. Perhaps that is what I became._

_The island was lost. I believe from the moment Woodes Rogers stepped upon that island, we lost the war. Always, always, I was promising a war. I promised them, I promised myself. The truth of it is, there was no war. A few skirmishes, but no great göttdämmerung, as my old friend Mr. Abrahms would have called it. I thought that either we would win the day or go down in flames. Complete victory or complete loss. I thought that with my will, we could force England from our shores. If we failed, it was because the others were not worthy of my vision._

_The gall of me. Hindsight is perhaps merely a synonym for regret._

_Silver saw the truth of the situation long before I did. He tried on three occasions to convince me to change our course of action. He wanted me to admit that Nassau was lost. The people rebelled, here and there, but every time Rogers had the poor wretches hung. I believed the inhabitants would be resolved by these attacks on their brethren, and Silver was convinced that Rogers would break their spirits. He believed that Nassau was already English again._

_I refused to hear him. I mocked him for his lack of faith, while Billy was using his name and legend to try and rouse the population. Silver claimed he had never desired that, that he had no need of fame. He said that all he wanted was to live, and that it was all he had ever desired._

_He came to me three separate times to attempt to dissuade me from an attack on Nassau, as the reinforcements from the Navy continued to stream in. Each time I refused to let his words find their rest, and every time I grew more hardened against him. I thought he was just being cowardly. The man who had risen so high in my estimation seemed once more like the shiftless rogue who first came amongst our company. I thought him gutless, even after what I had seen of him._

_The final time, he said to me that what he had spoke of, that night so many months ago when it was only he and I, that what he predicted was going to come to pass, and soon, if I did not pause to see the reality before my eyes. By then I was like stone. I told him to remove himself from my cabin, and that his being a cripple would not prevent me from beating him senseless. He said no more, and he looked sad as he left my company, but who can know if this was truthful. It was Silver, after all._

_Within days, I was told that a vote was being put forth. Silver for captain. I had been so busy preparing for the invasion of Nassau that I was taken quite off my guard. It seemed to have come from nowhere. But then it made a terrible sense. Silver was the one who warned me when others were aiming for my position. Of course he would say nothing when it was his time._

_I do not want to admit that he did warn me. He came to me and told me the day was coming. I can hate John Silver until the end of time, and yet it does not change the fact that I let this happen. _

_So sure I was of my security that I made a mock of the proceedings. I did not take it seriously—how could I? He was a cripple who had been at sea for bare years. He had robbed them of their prize of the Spanish gold. He was unfaithful, and they were fools for even bringing the question forward at such a dangerous time._

_I could not sense their mood. I confess it. I harangued them for stupidity, and tried to cheer their blood for the coming fight, for which I would be the only logical choice for captain. It seemed to me that I could not lose. My will had carried the day for so long that it did not occur to me that it would ever fail._

_Then Silver spoke. Where I had hollered, he did not once raise his voice. He admitted his shortcomings as a seaman. He said that yes, his intention had been to steal the gold, but reminded them that he had given up his share from guilt. He reminded them that I too had intended on stealing the gold from them, and had killed Mr. Gates in due part for it. He said that yes, he was a cripple and still learning. But, he told them, his primary concern was for them. He had no desire for a war that could not be won. He wanted only to live, and for them to live. He said that it was not cowardice to walk away from this fight, because there was no fight to be had, only destruction. He told them that I did not care if every single one of them died in the attempt on Nassau, that I would not stop until every single one of them were hanged._

_He told them that Nassau had already been lost and that it was time to leave. The sea was limitless, but everything has its end, and Nassau was finished. It was time to find new and better climes, and that was what they would do under his captaincy._

_I lost my temper. I called him a coward in front of all the men. I said that any man who followed him would forever be branded a coward. The look on his face was so pitying that I wish I had punched him across it. He replied, “It is not cowardly to desire life. It is sane, and that is a state you have long since abandoned.”_

_At that point I did make to strike him, and suddenly there were four men between me and him. The others were all staring at me, as though I had been in the wrong. I asked him what manner of man was he, asked them what manner of captain they wanted, a man who would not even fight for himself._

_Silver replied that he did not want to fight. He wanted to make a living, which he could not do if he was not alive, and he did not want to fight me. He said that we had been friends, and he would not raise a hand to me, but that he was sick of, and I quote, my “bloody crusade.”_

_I said that we had never been friends, and that he was a fool to think otherwise. I told the men once more that they were fools if they thought for a second that this idiot could keep them alive, and I left them to have their vote._

_I have now sat here for near to five minutes, unable to write the word. Even now, I find it remarkable that such a thing came to pass. I find myself unable to write it without some measure of shame. Unanimous. That is the word that has stayed trapped inside my pen. The vote for Silver was unanimous._

_It was Billy and Joji who came to tell me. Billy, I imagine, because he hates me and desired the satisfaction of seeing me face the totality of my loss. Joji because even I will concede the man could filet me quite easily with that sword he carries. I was incredulous. It had to be some jest. Billy, with no small amount of glee, though he tried to contain it, informed me I was to leave the ship, owing to how I was likely to do harm to Captain Silver._

_Captain Silver. The words make me want to crack my knuckles open upon bone. They enfuriate me, they enrage me. They are two words unmeant to conjoin, and yet they have, for all the world to know. Captain Long John Silver, of the_ Walrus _._

_I meant to kill him. I did. I strode past them and only got so far as the door. When I did, I saw their faces. My men’s faces. Men I had known for years. Who I had brought through storms and beachings and attacks, who I had dragged through the very gates of hell itself. These were my men. How was it possible that they would betray me?_

_Only as I looked at them, I realized these were not my men. I saw no recognition in their eyes. I saw apprehension and exhaustion, but there was no loyalty. Not to me, at the least. No, their allegiances had passed completely and utterly to Silver._

_How stubborn and focused I was not to see it coming. I lost them because I let that idiot convince them that he cared. Affection. Love. Sentiment has no place in battle._

_And they refused to see that we were at battle. They believed him. That there was no war because Nassau was already gone._

_I was murderous in my rage. I would have killed the first man to cross my path, I would have killed them all, had I not been knocked senseless from behind. I remember falling, and the last thing I saw was Billy Bones over me. I heard him say, “It’s finally over, boys,” and then the bastard punched me in the face._

_I woke, sometime later, on the shore. My possessions had been placed beside me, along with a not small share of our reserves. That was accompanied by a letter from Silver, apologizing for the method of my departure. He said that he expected someday, if I was not killed trying to tear Nassau down with my bare hands, that we would meet on the field of battle, and that he did not begrudge me my rage._

_I swore in that moment that was exactly what I would do. I would have Nassau. I would have it as I meant it to be, with or without a crew, and when that task was finished I would hunt the earth until I found John Silver and lopped off his head._

_However, it is eight months later, and I find myself in New Hampshire. And the_ Walrus _, as to its whereabouts I know not. I heard it provisioned and set out east the day after they left me on Cat Island._

_My hand is sore from all the writing, so I shall continue this story another day. Tomorrow will likely prove to be exhausting._

_I have spent this day thinking of killing Silver, but he was right about a great number of things. I really would have killed every last one of those men in my quest to claim Nassau. Of that I have no doubt._

_Unfortunately, neither did anyone else._


	3. The Work of a Human Being

Running a hand over the buttons of the waistcoat, he looks down at his feet. The sight of his own body is unfamiliar. Over a decade spent in black, and here he is in what feels very much like civilian clothing. The colours are pale.

            Thank God there are no mirrors in this place, nor shall there ever be.

            He rolls his shoulders, attempting to find some measure of comfort. And the stockings—everything is so tight. The clothes stick to him like a second skin. Tugging at the waistcoat, he walks over to the shoes he bought at port. Simple, leather, second hand. He steps into them.

            They have the slightest heel. His boots are flat. He scowls, and takes a few steps in them.

            _Has it really been so long?_

There is a moment of uncertainty. How strange it is that he has forgotten what it is like to walk in shoes as opposed to salt eaten boots. The back of the things bite lightly into his ankles. He crosses his arms, and walks to and fro in them, over the planks.

            It is not as though he can put his boots on over the stockings. Tempting though the thought might be. He simply has to wear the silly things.

            _I do not have to do a damned thing. There is no reason for me to leave this place, to pretend to be anything that I am not_. _I can sit here and_ —

            And what? That, of course, is the question.

            Letting his head fall back onto his shoulders, he recites, “In the morning when thou risest unwillingly….”

            Shaking his head, he opens the front door. He wobbles slightly on the shoes, and presses his lips together in dismay. That _will not_ do. Taking the saddle from off the wall, he drapes it over his arm and closes the door behind himself. He straightens his shoulders, and walks confidently around the side of the house.

            The horse is a hot blooded beauty, seventeen hands high. There is a small pasture out back that Marcus can graze upon, and a tiny stable. James will have to expand upon it before winter truly falls. It will be too small for the animal.

            He should not have bought the horse. Only it has been a very long time since he had a decent animal, and the last few months have been awfully bleak.

            He clicks from the side of the cheek, and Marcus trots over to him, shaking out his mane. He holds his head high, a haughty creature. James reaches up, stroking a palm over the horse’s face. Marcus simply raises his head higher.

            It is the first time in possibly weeks that James has smiled. “What do you think?” he murmurs. “Shall we go for a quick ride, you and I?” He pets along the animal’s mane, then bends his face closer. “Will you save me from these dreadful shoes?”

             The horse shakes off his hand, stepping towards the gate.

            Nodding, James says, “I shall take that as a yes.”

            It appears as though he will be one of those men who speak only to his horse. Better, at least, than a man who speaks only to himself.

 

As he rides into town, he repeats the words over and over again in his mind.

            _In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be present—I am rising to the work of a human being._

His eyes rake over the roofs of the village. What did Wake say? Forty six people. That’s not so many, really. The family he grew up next to had ten children. For all he knows, this town could only have four families.

            Wishful thinking, a thing he has not indulged in for quite some time. He counts twelve buildings just from a distance.

            _Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist and for which I was brought into the world?_ It is Thomas’ voice murmuring the words to him. The same soft tone as he read from the book that afternoon where they did not even leave the comfort of bed, the rain drizzling down the window pane. Thomas teasing and reading the bit about rising unwillingly.

            After years of keeping the words away, because the tenderness of the voice distracted him from his purpose, James finds himself wrapping himself in them like armor. No sailcloth coated with pitch. This is another manner of battle he must attempt.

            Once, a long time ago, he was a civilized man. Perhaps he shall never be again, but he knows enough of their ways to approximate one.

            Crossing the true line separating wilderness from the village, James guides Marcus into an easy canter through the wide spread buildings. They are simple, unadorned structures. Many have thatched roofs. Only a few have shingles. Most possess shutters, and he sees little glass.

            It is just past two in the afternoon, and he does not expect to see many people about. The first person he does see is a man bent over behind a house, stacking wood. Another item on James’ list: firewood.

            “Where would I find Mr. Fraser?” James asks.

            When the man starts in surprise, James realizes his misstep. He is not known here. He is supposed to introduce himself, or at the very least be polite. He cannot merely make demands of these people.

            The man turns, and James does not react to what he sees. The fellow is perhaps ten years younger than himself, in clothes far more worn, shoes patched many times over. However, he has one distinguishing feature that will always be unmissable: a B has been branded on his forehead.

            Polite as anything, the man says, “Mr. Fraser, sir?”

            “Yes,” James replies, trying to soften the ingrained rough edges of his voice.

            Pointing towards the center of town, the man explains, “Keep on the way you are, sir, and you should see the sign of the apothecary. Two doors past that is Mr. Fraser. His place is the one with the windows. If you don’t find him there, sir, you might find him across the way at the tavern. You won’t be able to miss that.”

            Inclining his head, James says, “I am most obliged. Good day.”        

            From behind him, he hears the man murmur, “G’day, sir.”

            He guides Marcus through the small homes to buildings that are slightly more sturdy or larger. He can hear the occasional voice. The wisp of a woman singing.

            Emerging onto the center of town, James takes a cursory glance of the place. When last he rode into town, it was late evening. Now he sees that while it is small, the village is well kept. The buildings at the center surround an open space. He spies the tavern quite easily, and is relieved to know that puritan sentiments either never travelled this far or have receded. Near to it is the meeting house. From inside he hears a woman speaking, though muffled.

            At the dead center of the space is a set of stocks.

            Turning his eyes from that, James looks to his right. He quickly spots the apothecary—a small building with a sign that merely bears a mortar and pestle. With no intention of speaking to its inhabitant, he prompts Marcus onwards to a house two doors down.

            As advertised, it has windows, and a sign that bears the words ‘Alastair T. Fraser, Magistrate.’

            Drawing a light breath, James pulls up on the reins. Dismounting, he draws Marcus near to the porch. Looping the reins through, he secures the horse in place, then gives him an absent minded stroke before taking the step.

            For one humiliating, horrifying moment, he feels as if he is about to trip off his shoes. He stops dead, grimacing murderously. In another life, the expression upon his face would have meant bloodshed. A great, gory deal of it.

            In this lifetime, he gathers himself together, tugging securely on the bottom of his waistcoat, then brushes a hand over his closely shorn red hair. With a quick breath, he steps forward and raps on the door with the back of his knuckles.

            A phlegmy voice hollers, “Enter!”

            Stepping inside, James says, “Mr. Fraser?”

            The short, fleshy man sits behind a table littered with papers. He has curly hair that has yellowed with age, and a nose that appears to have been squashed if not once than at least five times in what must have been a truly impressive fight. He smiles, revealing a cracked tooth. “Mr. Moore,” he says. There is a trace of Scots in his voice.

            He begins to rise, but James puts up a hand. “I don’t mean to trouble you, sir. Might I take a seat?”

            Raising his sparse brows, Fraser gestures to the chair across from him. James has a seat.

            Immediately, he feels deeply uncomfortable. Intellectually he understands that these clothes fit as they should. On a visceral level, it is as though he has been placed in a vise of cotton and wool.

            Folding his hands in his lap, he tries to decide on the best way to sit. In his navy days, he was all straight shoulders. He was bloody _drilled_ on how to sit. When he left all that behind, he learned to slouch. No one took a man seriously if he sat primly with his knees together. He learned to take up as much space as possible, to be visible. Visibility was the point. Now, though, he is endeavouring for the opposite. How is he to accomplish that?

            He takes his cue from Fraser, sitting back easily in the seat, neither rigid nor loose. Good Christ, this is going to be something he will actually have to practice. The man he was the past fifteen years wants to put a musket shot through his head and end the misery.

            “And what might I do for you, Mr. Moore?” Fraser says, and James realizes he should have already spoken.

            _For we are made for co-operation, like hands._

            Not tempering his usual gruffness, James says, “I came to the realization, sir, that I was rather short with you when you showed me to my property. You extended me an invitation to dinner that I rudely declined. I do—indeed value my privacy. Most dearly. But I cannot live here and expect to be uncivil to my neighbours. So I apologize, sir.”

            There are men in this world who would duck for cover, expecting the very sky to fall. Captain Flint, _apologizing_ to someone? Calling another man ‘sir’? Jesus Christ almighty, it must be the end of days.

            He was not entirely able to meet Fraser’s eyes while he spoke. As he is a grown man with more sins on his soul than hairs on his head, he forces himself to look up.

            Fraser is unfazed, little smile still on his non-existent lips. Crossing his arms on the table, he says, “Mr. Moore—no offense was taken. You had just come from a long journey. A taxing one, I am sure. Your apology is very kind, but unnecessary, I assure you.” He sits back. He has the face of a man who has spent most of his life smiling. Ugly as sin, but a happy man nonetheless. “The invitation to dine still stands, of course. My Lizzy is quite the cook, and as fine a dining companion as a man could ask for.”

            “I would be pleased to join you both. Whenever it is convenient for you.”

            “You are trying very hard, aren’t you, Mr. Moore.”

            James pauses. “I’m sorry?”

            Fraser lets out a small sigh, and gets up. Putting his hands behind his back, he walks over to the window, having a look out on the town center. “You purchased the property from Chester Briley, did you not?”

            “I did.”

            Nodding, Fraser turns and leans against the wall, folding his arms. He wears a tight fitting waistcoat in a pale yellow. It looks too small on him, and still he seems more comfortable than James will ever be in these clothes. “You are not the first Chester has sent this way.” He lifts a hand. “I’m not telling you to worry, lad. I’m telling you not to. This isn’t a place people come to be—well, found. Rather, they come here so that they’re not. There’s a reason they call it The Edge.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            Flapping a hand, Fraser says, “Oh, the proper name of the town when those uptight fools from the Midlands first came here was New Dudley. That certainly rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it. Between then and now, there’s only one family left from the ones who settled here, and they’re in no position to judge. The Smithes, if you come across them. About twenty years now, when almost everyone had died out and the place was near empty, and new blood came in, some wit thought to call it Dudley the Third.” Fraser snorts, and James allows himself the smallest of smiles. “Most of the people here simply call it The Edge.”

            “Why?”

            Shrugging, Fraser answers, “Because it is. Edge of civilization, isn’t it. The bloody French are on the other side.” He waves the statement off. “Ah, not really. They’re a ways off. It’s as far as the English have been, though.” He returns to the chair, dropping into it with a small sound of relief. “Edge of where the English have been. Where the road ends. It’s as far as you can go and not speak _en Francais_. Or Abenaki, I suppose.”

            “The natives.” Fraser grunts in affirmation, and James asks, “Do they give you much trouble?”

            Fraser near guffaws. “The Abenaki? No. Regardless of what these fools around here might tell you. No, the Abenaki are docile as sheep. You ever want to hear stories that’ll keep you up at night, ask about the Iroquois. Of course, ask them—“ He nods out the window. “To tell you the difference and they’ll give you a blank look and then run in circles like chickens with their heads cut off. Nae, Mr. Moore, if you want to fret about something, it’s not the savages need worry you. Concern yourself with the fact that we are about a month and a half from winter the likes you may have never seen, if I’m guessing at that being a London accent.”

            “Guilty as charged.”

            “You should make sure you’re well provisioned. Have you lived through a winter in conditions like these before? Out in the woods.”

            “Afraid not, sir.”

            “Damned peculiar time to come here.” Fraser lifts both hands. “But that is your business, sir, and not mine. I’ve lost my train of thought, Mr. Moore. I’m afraid that happens ever frequently at my age. How did we advance to this particular topic?”

            James is reticent to pick it back up. “I am uncertain—“

            “Ah! Yes. I was telling you not to worry. The Edge is forgiving of people who want to be left to their own devices. We tend to pick up more wayward souls than upstanding members of society, if you catch my meaning, sir. Hell, the pastor spends most of his day in the tavern. Or there’s Silas Greer and his wife, only don’t call her his wife to his face. She’s black as tar, and he says she’s his slave, and for all I know she could be that too, but she _is_ his wife.” Fraser shrugs again. “I really don’t care where you have come from, so long as you don’t draw attention to yourself or make life more difficult for me. Decent enough people here, who have no need of the outside world poking its nose in.”

            He finds himself slightly irritated. He is trying to blend in, damn it. He does not like hearing how obviously he stands out. “And you, sir? What brought you to this place?”

            “Oh, the most dishonest reason of all.” Deadpan, Fraser finishes, “Money.” James bites down into his lip before his mouth is even tempted to smile. “No one else wanted the job, and I wasn’t ever going to see advancement in Portsmouth. So they said, Fraser, do you want money and a home out in the middle of nowhere, and I said that sounds fine to me and Lizzy said this is a wretched idea and grounds for divorce but nonetheless, here we find ourselves. Ten years on.”

            “Has your wife taken to it?”

            “To hear her tell it, like a fish to air, but the truth of it is that this—“ He gestures outside. “Fairly inhospitable little spit of land has become home. Near impossible to farm, two days by horse to the nearest town, enemies to the west, and still—it’s a good enough place to find yourself if you don’t care for—well. I can’t say as I’m all that fond of the crown, if you beg my pardon, sir.”

            James lifts his fingers. “No pardon required.” He is unsure what conspires to make him say, “Trust me.”

            Fraser nods. He seems a good enough, cheerful sort. James does not see Fraser giving him any trouble. “Am I to assume that I’m the first you’ve spoken to today?”

            “Since arriving in town? Yes. Well—I encountered a man on my entrance. He bore a brand.”

            “Which one?” Fraser says to James’ surprise. “I told you, Mr. Moore, we take all comers at The Edge. If it was Roger, it would be a T on his hand. If it was Will—“ Fraser taps the center of his head.

            “The latter.”

            “Oh, that’s Will Fredericks. Good fellow. Winter of—oh, I can’t remember, but it was a dreadful winter here, apparently out in Maryland too, and Will, he was near starved, and stole from his neighbour to feed himself and his wife. Didn’t turn out too grand for him, seeing as he did it on the Lord’s day, hence the placement of that particular brand. Wife died on him too. He came out here with his daughter, Mary. Lovely little thing. Always has a smile.” Fraser sighs, frowning. “How did we get to this?” He snaps his fingers. “Right. You’ve come to set yourself square with the law before the rest of town, is that it?”

            James pauses before saying carefully, “I would not have perhaps put it in so many words.”

            “I might be forgetful, Mr. Moore, but there are still a few candles lit. You and I are fine. I’d suggest you consider your story, though.”

            He stills, gripping his hands a little tighter. “My story?”

            “You’ve been here two weeks, Mr. Moore, and it’s a small community. Not much to do but try to survive, and wag one’s tongue. It’s not malicious, for the most part. But a silence can sometimes be more tantalizing than a story, don’t you find?”

            Clearing his throat, James says, “I was a merchant captain, and after so many years at sea, I’ve decided to settle.”

            After a moment, as if waiting for more, Fraser shrugs. “Aye, I suppose that will do. If anyone asks for more details, I’ll say you’re a man of few words. That will at least be true.”

            “I would appreciate it.”

            They both lift their head at shouting from outdoors. It sounds like a man, and a drunk one at that.

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Fraser says, pushing himself back to his feet. He goes to the window, bending a little and squinting. “Frankly, Mr. Moore, give me less trouble than this sot and I might make you mayor.”

            The man raises his voice, enough that James can hear him yell, “Cowardly pieces—of shit! The lot of you! You know what she’s done! That fucking whore!”

            Fraser grumbles, and walks to the door, opening it up. “You might want to see this, Mr. Moore. It’s about as exciting as it gets in Dudley the Third.”

            James follows him out onto the steps. A few others have opened their doors as well, watching with curiosity and amusement.

            A bearded man, barely on his feet, has staggered near to the stocks. He seems to be speaking to none of them and all of them at the same time. Pointing at the sky, he shouts, “I charge—that that cunt bitten whore has had congress—with _Satan himself_! Sold her soul to take—my brother’s life! Murdered him in cold blood, she did! Sold her soul, and all of you—“ He waves at them all in a sweeping gesture. “Are all Satan’s whores yourselves! Letting me poor—“ He stops to belch. “Be murdered.”

            He promptly trips. There’s some tittering from across the center. The man glares about, then spends the next twenty seconds struggling to his feet.

            James leans over to Fraser, who he discovers is a good six inches shorter than himself. “Who might this fool be?”

            “Oliver Smithe. Like I told you, his is the last family from the ones who settled here originally. His brother died of cancer some months back. He’s convinced his sister in law had something to do with it, and hasn’t shut up about it since.” Fraser folds his arms, shaking his head and watching with detachment. “A whole town of people who keep to them bloody selves, and then there’s Oliver.”

            James sees several small faces peeking out from the meeting house. “Do you have a school?” he asks.

            “Oh, aye,” Fraser says, as Smithe continues his rant. “Mrs. Walters teaches a few of the young ones. Not a child in town can’t read.” He nods, proud of the accomplishment. “Can’t say that about any of the big cities. Even the Greers’ little one reads. Sits in with the rest.” He leans over, cringing. “But keep that under your hat, the red coats ever show.”

            Nodding, James begins to realize what a truly strange town he has arrived in. He had asked Mr. Evers where a good place to retire would be; perhaps now he understands a little more why the man smiled the way he did when he recommended New Dudley.

            “Gentlemen.”

            James looks down. Wake has come up behind them. He is without his hat, revealing short black hair, and his sleeves are rolled up. He is accompanied by a massive black dog. It looks more wolf than dog, the truth be told.

            “Mr. Wake,” says Fraser.

            Studying Smithe, Wake says, “What precisely is his complaint today?”

            “Oh, the usual. Milly being a consort of the devil, murdering poor innocent Edward.”

            “Glad to see he hasn’t changed his tune. Say what you will for him, but at least the man is consistent.” Wake looks up at Fraser. “Well?”

            “Well what?”

            “Are you going to do something about him?”

            “Why would I do a thing like that?”

            Rolling his eyes, Wake responds acidly, “Oh, I don’t know, Alastair. You _are_ the magistrate.”

            “Oh, he’ll work it out of his system—“ Fraser stops mid-sentence as Smithe pulls out his prick and proceeds to start pissing on the stocks. “Bugger.”

            With a nod, Wake says, “No, you were right. Best to let the children see this.” He tilts his head to them. “Mr. Fraser, Mr. Moore.”

            James gives him a faint nod, and watches as Wake walks away, the dog trotting at his side.

            “The Smithes,” Fraser grumbles, pushing off of his perch. “Be the bloody _death_ of me.”

 

It is the first real meal that James has had in two weeks. He has to work not to devour it whole.

            “Not doing much cooking out there?”

            He lifts his eyes, and Fraser puts up his hands.

            They are in the small tavern. Fraser brought him over to introduce him to Tess O’Donnell, who runs the place. She is as red headed as he, with a smiling face and shrewd eyes. The building has only four tables, but for a town this size it is obviously more than enough.

            James bites off another mouthful of chicken. His stomach is growling, audibly. Christ, he really is going to have to start eating real food again. He needs more nourishment than hardtack can provide. Either that or he will have to come into town and eat here. That will create many opportunities for people to approach him. To try and speak to him.

            He will need the provisions to cook.

            The only other patron is the parson. He is lightly soused, sitting off by himself and morosely writing. Fraser assures him that is the man’s usual routine. “Not many attend services here,” Fraser confessed. “I think he’s been struck with a melancholy as a result.”

            Fraser sighs loudly, scratching through his curls. “You’ll be surprised, but his brother was worse.”

            “Smithe?” James asks around his mouthful. He is too hungry to care much about etiquette for the moment.

            Giving a nod, Fraser says, “Ned Smithe was as evil a man as I ever met in my life. You meet a certain kind of person out here. Hell, you know the type—the ones back in England, think they rule the world because their ancestors came over with William the Bastard. But put that kind of attitude out here, at the borders of civilization—beyond the borders, occasionally—add in dissolution and poverty and madness, and you get a terrible creation. You get men like the Smithes. Ned Smithe died a terrible death. Can’t say as anyone else could have deserved it more.”

            “His crime?”

            “Besides being the devil’s own? Was never able to bring it to anything, but he burned down the Merricks’ stable, with all their animals in it. All because Benjamin insulted him. And not unfairly, mind you. He and Milly and their girl lived about a mile from town, and we’d see Ned occasionally in here, but those girls weren’t ever able to leave the house. He wouldn’t let them. They weren’t allowed to take one step out of doors. No telling what he did to the girl, but he beat Milly something terrible. Popped the eye right out of her head, once.”

            Grimacing, James says, “Sounds like a charming specimen.”

            “I’ll say. When I heard he was dying? Oh, I got a right cheerful glow, I did. And it’s a sin—I know it is, and I can’t say as I’m proud of it—but we all toasted his death here when he finally went.”

            James swallows, and asks, “So?”

            “So what?”

            “Did she kill him?”

            Fraser bursts out laughing. “Heaven’s no. The man had cancer. Besides, Milly is no murderer. She’s still little more than a girl herself. He married her when she was twelve. He terrified that poor creature to the point where she worshipped him. The saddest part of it is that of all of us, she and that drunk out there are the only ones sad the bastard’s dead.” Shrugging, Fraser says, “I thought he might go after her, but she and her girl are staying with Tess’s oldest. Biggest man in the village. Oliver’s a coward. He’ll rant and rave and piss himself stupid in front of everyone, but he won’t actually do anything about it.”

            James takes a sip from his cup. He cannot identify the liquor, but it is strong and that is really all that matters. “What about Wake?”

            Furrowing his brows, Fraser says, “What about him?”

            “What’s his story?”

            Fraser raises his shoulders. “Ezra? Can’t say as I know much about him before he came here. Thought to maybe marry him off to Fredericks’ girl. He might have been a thief, but his daughter’s a lovely thing. Only Ezra, he’s a widower. Said he wasn’t of a mind to marry again. Just about the only time I’ve seen him be sentimental about anything. Been here—oh, must be three years now. Damned sight better than the last fool we had here dispensing remedies. Ezra got us through the smallpox outbreak last year, and that’s no mean feat. Why? He keeping you up?”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “With his music. Henderson was always complaining about him playing his violin or what have you into the wee hours.”

            Ah. Of course the violin would be coming from Wake’s property. Shaking his head, James says, “No. That is not my issue with him.”

            He is sticking a forkful of beans into his mouth when Fraser speaks in a tone that James has not heard from him before. Most of the casual merriment has disappeared, replaced by something far more somber. “I would be careful, Mr. Moore, using that tone when you speak of Ezra Wake. He is thought of most highly in this town. He is thought of most highly by me.”

            Looking up from his plate, James nods after a moment. “Understood.”

            Fraser returns to his cheerful self, chatting about Tess and when she took over the tavern. James, meanwhile, is cataloguing another strike against the apothecary.

 

Later, as they leave the tavern, they cross the town centre in the swiftly falling evening. Fraser calls over, “Feeling any better, Oliver?”

            The man is lying flat on his back, his feet in the stocks. “Smells…like piss,” he spits out.

            “Oliver, meet Mr. Moore. He’s new to town. I’ve told him what a lovely fellow you are.”

            Lifting his head, Smithe says, “Fuck you.” He looks blearily at James. “And fuck you too.”

            Fraser just shakes his head, and they continue walking. “Behold, the scion of our founding family.”

            From behind them, Smithe yells, “I’ll fucking kill you all!”

            James says, “I’ve seen worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the folks who have subscribed and left kudos. It is most appreciated. If you leave comments, I would probably flail with happiness.  
> The text that's quoted is, of course, Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. If you're interested in reading it for free, you can find it at http://classics.mit.edu/Antoninus/meditations.html. I've tried desperately to embed a link, but some battles are just not to be won.  
> Or, if you're an audiobook person, there's a podcast where the whole work is read aloud to you. It's just called Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, put out by Loyal Books, and you can get it for free from iTunes. Fair warning: each chapter is read by a different volunteer. Some are great, but one guy sounds exactly like John Wayne playing Genghis Khan.


	4. Becalmed

_September 20, 1720_

_I returned yesterday from a brief sojourn to Siddeston, the nearest location of some size. By that I mean still rather small. Two hundred souls reside there. It seemed, though, like a great many, after so many weeks on my own. I purchased a wagon, and the provisions I will require for the winter on The Edge, which is how the town has now been renamed in my mind._

_I was told that the journey would take four days total, but I performed it in a little under three. Marcus is impatient, and does not care to be kept at a gentle speed. I indulged him, but he seemed happier for it. Less pleased was he when I attached him to the wagon. However, seeing as I purchased the supplies to extend his stable, I will have little regard for his opinion on the matter_.

 

James looks at the page, and says flatly, “I’m talking about my horse.” With a deep breath through his nose, he re-inks the pen, and continues onwards.

 

_The journey home, I must admit, was pleasant. The colours of the leaves are remarkable. The forest is thick with red and gold. At one point a wind sprang up, and I stopped the wagon to listen to the sound. Everything rustled about me. The lane cuts thinly through seemingly endless miles of trees, and so I felt surrounded by the sound of wind._

_The wind. I have thought little of it  since coming here. It was once one of the most important tools of my trade, and yet on land I have barely noticed its presence. Here it does not have the significance it holds at sea. It does not determine the direction in which we travel, nor does it have the power to take a man’s life._

_I thought on the wind as I traveled back to The Edge, and was reminded of the first time I was ever becalmed. Before that day I had experienced fear, but I do not know that I felt terror until I saw what could happen when we were not in motion._

_I was fourteen years of age, after two years at sea. Normally I would have been two years from being considered as a seaman, but I was tall for my age, and lied about my years when applying to work aboard the merchant ship_ Corfu _. By this point I had progressed past the tasks many others my age would have performed, and was well into learning the rigging and even the basics of navigation thanks to the tutelage of the captain._

_Edwin Meers was a peculiar creature for his position. I have seen other merchant captains chain their men to the boat when reaching port, have seen them flay the skin from errant crew members’ backs, and it was not until leaving the_ Corfu _that I determined this was typical rather than the exception. The three years aboard Meers’ vessel, before I joined the navy, were hard, yes, but by the standard set aboard other vessels it could have been much worse._

_Meers took a liking to me. I believe it is because I was lettered, though respectful of him and his authority. The first year aboard I was given to the worst of the jobs. I cleaned the decks until my nails grew soft and I wondered that they might fall off. I rang that bloody bell so many times I swear that I can count a half hour in my soul without missing the second. Once I had demonstrated that I was unafraid of hard and honest labour, Meers took me under his wing, and set me about working the different sections of the ship, one at a time, to see which I might excel at._

_As it was, I met no task that I could not master. This led to some resentment amongst the men, who grumbled about my placement as the captain’s pet, but I did little to assuage their jealousies. If the captain took notice of me, it was because I had proven myself. I have never been skilled with politics, preferring to advance by merit alone. By my fourteenth year, the captain and his first mate, Mr. Lwydn, who was rougher edged but also a mentor, would take turns schooling me with the astrolabe and the maps. Mr. Lwydn ran me through my knots until my hands bled, and he taught me to read the sky as easily as I can read the words on this page. Perhaps better, seeing as my penmanship leaves something to be desired. There were nights when I would climb to the mizzen top and recite the constellations to myself, anchoring myself and locating myself in the world. I have always preferred my own company, or shared confidence with very few, and some of my happiest memories are as a boy, high above the ship in the night sky, sailing across untroubled seas._

_I have gotten away from that which I meant to address—the first time we faced a becalming. Mr. Lwydn had warned me about it. He was a frank old Welshman with hair that stuck out of his ears and who was quite secure knowing that he would never helm a ship of his own. One night, perhaps a year before the events I am about to transcribe, I was practicing a slipped constrictor hitch. I will never forget it. Over and over again, he had me tie that knot. I had the simple constrictor hitch rather easily, and the slipped  a few after that, but Lwydn had me go over it endlessly. As I did, I asked him what frightened him._

_It is curious that I did. I kept my opinions and questions to myself, lest I needed to ask in order to perform my duties. Only it was a calm night and we were three days from our destination after a relatively quiet journey. I asked, thinking that nothing would frighten the man, or that he would tell me some stories that sailors have passed around for centuries._

_Instead, he told me, “Above all, I fear the winds going out of those sails.” I, not being one for saying more than was necessary, gave him room to speak. He said to me, “When the wind fails, boy, there’s naught you can do but pray.” Then he bade me undo my work and begin again._

_The day the winds did fail was an eerie one. I woke earlier than I was accustomed to. I could feel that something was wrong. After a year of subtle motion, my body had become entirely accustomed to it. Yet, though I lay in my hammock, I did not rock. I was still, as was the ship, though I knew us to be days from our destination in the Antilles. I saw that I was not the only one to have awoken; the other men appeared wary if not indeed distressed._

_I went above deck to discover our sails slack, and Meers, Lwydn, and Mr. Irving, the sailing master, to be in close conversation. Lwydn spied me and roared for me to check the rigging._

_I went to aft of the vessel, and what I saw astounded me. The sea was flat as glass. I could not believe my eyes. I climbed the rope shrouds until I was high as the top, and looked all about us. Nothing. It was a bright day and cloudless, and perhaps that made it all the more uncanny. From my vantage point I could see in every direction. There was not so much as a rustle. The sea had gone silent and still as the sky above._

_Ed McCabe was seated upon the main top. He said to me, “I think we might be swivved, boy.”_

_What followed was eighteen days of hell that I hoped never to repeat, though that hope proved to be futile. I watched as these able men, who I had believed knowledgeable about everything, who I had trusted to know the secrets of the seas, were unable to lead us out of this unusually cruel predicament._

_The men, who had always been more or less civil, began to grouse and mutter amongst themselves. They blamed Meers for their predicament, though I see not how the man could have controlled the forces of nature. They blamed Mr. Irving, who they claimed should have heeled in this way, or tacked in that, and generally just laid blame where there should be none._

_The first two days, Meers had us continue to work with the hope that our condition was temporary. On the third day, he conceded that it may not be so, and we were ordered to stand down._

_Until then, I had been apprehensive. I remembered Mr. Lwydn’s words, but I did not want to seem a coward, so I had said nothing and performed my duties as always. When we were ordered to do as little as possible, that was when I truly felt fear. I have never been one for idleness. To be told to stop, as the winds had stopped, was near more than I could bear._

_Still, I followed my orders. We went to half rations the first week, every one of us. With the food salted so, we could not help a terrible thirst._

_At the beginning of the second week, we went to quarter rations, and that truly is when our suffering began. The men fell silent, and we did little but sit, the days passing by in aching brightness. Some kept look out for fish, but during our ordeal, I believe only a handful were caught. Those that were we ate raw._

_The longer we were becalmed, the less pressing my hunger became, and more desperate my thirst. I thought of nothing but water. Every breath I took was like taking a mouthful of dust. And all around us water. That is one of the cruelest things about such a situation. All you desire is water, all you can think of is water. Then up raise your head, and what do you see but water stretching far as the horizon. McCabe told me that he thought we were dead and that this was purgatory. I was in little state to argue with him, if indeed he had been wrong._

_I could move very little, and every motion was accompanied by a terrible aching. It was a thing only made lesser by the great pain in my head. That was ever present. Like a nail had been placed in my skull and was slowly being pushed through._

_In our second week, a man was discovered to be stealing water. I knew I ought to be furious with him, but I understood. We all understood why he had done it. We were all suffering in the exact same manner. If I had little more courage, I thought, or a little less moral certainty, would it not have been I who snuck into the stores?_

_The captain, of course, could not be seen to tolerate such an act. He did something that I would never have expected from him. Captain Meers, who had shown me many kindnesses. I watched as he took the man by the throat, and in full view of the entire crew, walked him to the fore deck, not five feet from me, and threw him overboard. I cannot remember the man’s full name. I remember that the men called him Gully._

_For a day, Gully pleaded with us to let him up. I was nearest to where he fell, to where he still clung to our side. I was the one who heard his every word. He spoke to each of the men, calling them by name. When he called me by my name, I confess that I covered my ears. I was too weak with hunger and thirst to bear the sound of it. He called me Jimmy, and lad, and entreated my pity. After that, he wailed for some time before he fell silent._

_I fell asleep upon the deck, but woke in the dead of night to the sound of laughter. It was the kind of noise that after thirty years you can still recall. It was coming from the sea, I thought. I thought that the water was laughing at us, only it had gone mad. I thought of my grandfather’s story about Mr. Flint._

_I startled when Mr. Lwydn came upon me. He said that it was only Gully, and that he would stop soon. Then he gave me water. I was so desperate for it that I nearly drank without questioning where it came from. I did not ask the question with my mouth but with my eyes, and he answered me in kind. Still I could hear Gully laughing from the water, and I knew I took my life in my hands. The thirst was so great that I could not stop myself, and I drank the mouthful he offered me. He bid me keep my silence, again without words. I fell asleep._

_In the morning, when I woke, Gully had disappeared, and we were all the better for it. The captain had made his point most clearly, and I respect him deeply for both his decisive action, understanding the effect it would have upon us. I once shot two men who stole when the_ Walrus _was becalmed, but I daresay it did not frighten the crew so much as Meers frightened us. Three decades on and I still dream of his laughter drifting up from the water in the night._

_In the days that followed, men began to undergo seizures. I recall one man whose fingernails turned purple. We were all of us near too weak to move, and the days bled into one another, the sun hot as hades and the sky and ocean becoming one. I could no longer distinguish the horizon. It was all blue or black, with no difference between the two._

_When at last the wind came, it seemed a dream. It raised the hair from my face and I believed it to be some phantasm. I thought it a hallucination until I heard Meers screaming for us to get on our feet. We were all of us so weak that only a few of us were able to rise. I and five others still had the strength to stand, but none of the others were, no matter how Meers and Lwydn kicked and exhorted. We had all of us been given equal rations, a mistake I would not later make, and it was only by chance that any of us still had the will to rise._

_After two weeks of inattention, the main sail had loosened. Those of us able to stand were instructed up the rigging. I went up the ropes, but in about twice the time it usually took me. Below me, the men were pleading with myself and the others to make fast the sail so we could catch the wind. I was so ill and drained that I barely believed myself possible of staying upright, let alone doing the work._

_Lwydn joined us, and did himself the work of two men as the rest of us struggled. I wanted to prove myself to him, and hastened my pace. Together we made fast the sail, and it filled abruptly with the glorious wind._

_A cheer went up amongst the men, and I was near delirious with joy as the ship heaved forward. My happiness was short lived. I heard someone cry, and turned in time to see Mr. Lwydn fall from his footing. He fell forty feet, and broke his neck._

_Six more men perished on our journey before we reached port. We were all more of us dead than alive upon our arrival. Meers patted me on the back and said nothing. Two weeks later we were back at sea._

_And so I found myself thinking of those terrible three weeks, on the road, in the middle of the forest. I learned from the experience, and did not make the mistakes that Meers did. I deprived all but essential crew of rations, any rations, and did not waste any energy those first days pretending that the situation was anything besides dire. Doing so saved the lives of the crew, save the two traitors who stole._

_It was so peculiar that the incident came back to me so vividly in so different a place. There was ground, and trees, and all the brilliantly covered leaves, and only the barest scraps of blue amongst the clouds. The wind made everything shake, and the sound of it in the leaves made me stop. It is entirely different from what I have known. Everywhere I have been, and I have never been in a place such as this._

_I thought of what it was to be becalmed. To be unable to move. I will admit, the idea of it gave me great pause. I wonder if I have deliberately placed myself in such a situation._

 

Beneath him, Marcus strains to quicken his step. James has to twist the reins in his hands, and says in a low voice, “ _No_.” The horse huffs, but slows to the pace James desires.

            The pathway twists through the trees, unlike the one to his home, which guides straight from the main road. He rather prefers this one. Through the autumn evening drifts the sound of a violin, coming ever closer. He rides towards it, grimace marring his face.

            Through the dense sugar maples, he cannot make out where the road ends. It must be near, judging from the volume of the instrument. The music it makes is mournful. James realizes that he recognizes it. ‘Black is the Colour of My True Love’s Hair.’

            This is not a trip he wants to make. More than that, he does not want to be further indebted to Wake of all people. Something about the man simply rubs against the grain.

            Abruptly, the music ceases, and James hears the bark of a large dog. It must be that beast James saw in town. Marcus lifts his head, and James urges him on.

            They come around a turn, and are suddenly at their destination. The house, unlike his, possesses an attic. A small porch has been added to the original structure. Shutters are closed over the windows, concealing the insides.

            James draws up on the reins, and climbs over the side of the horse. The barking has ceased. He opens the saddle bag, withdrawing the articles of clothing that Wake brought him a week prior.

            _Do not make any enemies. You may be here awhile_.

            The door opens. Wake steps out, unsurprised by James’ arrival. His nonchalance about everything vexes James.

            A dog noses out from beside his legs. It is not the same one from the other day. This one too is massive, looking more wolf than hound, but it has a white patch of fur down its muzzle. It lowers its head and growls at James.

            With a sharp downward glance, Wake commands, “Hush.” The dog immediately silences, sitting obediently. Wake reaches down, scratching its head. He nods to James. “Mr. Moore.”

            Striding across the small lawn, for very few of the trees have been cleared away in front, James says, “Mr. Wake.” He holds out the clothing, displeased about this entire exchange. “I came to return your things.”

            Wake takes the clothes into his hands. He’s without his waistcoat or his stockings and shoes. It is too late to call. A strategic move on James’ part. He does not want to be invited in, nor does he want to make conversation.

            “I trust they served you well,” Wake says, and James nods, once.

            This time it is Miranda’s voice in his head. _Are you truly that far gone?_ A mixture of exasperation and affection. This man has not wronged him. He simply refused to conform to James’ expectations for how people react to him.

            Is that such a crime? He is trying to retire. He cannot expect to do that while inspiring fear in every person that he meets. At the least, he could be polite. Once that would have been second nature. Now he has to think about it, as if he is formulating a plan of attack.

            Wake negates his entire struggle when he says, “I would invite you in, sir, but I know you would only decline. So I shall spare you that discomfort.” He lifts the clothes slightly, and pushes the dog back indoors with his foot. “Good evening, Mr. Moore.”

            Off his guard, James repeats, “Mr. Wake.”

            Turning his back, Wake disappears inside, closing the door solidly behind himself.

            James stands there a second, feeling completely foolish. Clearing his throat, he turns and walks back to the horse. Marcus whinnies, and James has to reach up for the reins.

            Solitude. That is preferable to this.


	5. Passing Days

_September 23, 1720_

_I spent this day planning and then beginning the execution of a larger stall for Marcus. I have never stabled an animal in winter in such remote climes. Some trepidation must be admitted to. The winters of my life have been spent in London, at sea, or in the West Indies. Those experiences do not lend themselves well to my present circumstances._

_Buying the animal was a rash move, made in a moment of weakness. He has no place being out here, with little to do save keep me company. It was a vanity, to purchase him. I should return him from whence I bought him, or see if anyone would pay for him in Siddeston._

_I doubt I shall do this, however. He is my only companion in this place. I find that he comforts me. He seems as eager to leave this locale as I am, if not more so. Our evening rides together are one of my few joys._

_Tomorrow I dine with Mr. Fraser and his wife. I shall inquire of Mr. Fraser if there are further adaptations I might make to the stall._

_September 25, 1720_

_Yesterday evening I finally had dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Fraser. They are most agreeable, and the evening was well passed._

_They are nicely matched. He is forgetful, and she, I daresay, forgets nothing. They spar with one another like amiable enemies, agreeing over little and then coming to the same conclusion. Their small battles seem to amuse them._

_I had excused myself a moment, and when I returned, hesitated a moment to see them standing together. Mr. Fraser was holding Mrs. Fraser from behind, and they were murmuring to one another with expressions of contentedness. It is a rarity to see a union reach their years and still find that manner of happiness. I felt as if I was intruding._

_I questioned Mr. Fraser about the impending winter. He told me that the winters cannot be predicted with complete certainty. Most years he says they are wet, and some years the snowfall is quite tolerable. He told me, however, of one winter when the snow and wind came up so strongly that it trapped half the village indoors by virtue of the snow piling near to the top of the doors. He says that is the worst he has seen it here, but that he has not witnessed a case of the weather felling a healthy horse. He advised me to keep the horse blanketed but to not worry unduly._

_Mrs. Fraser did catch me slightly off guards at one point. She asked if my ancestry was Scots. She has retained far more of her accent than her husband. As my mother’s brogue was far thicker than Mrs. Fraser’s, I enjoyed the sound of her voice, as I usually do when I hear a woman speak with the tones of my ancestral homeland. When she asked if I was Scots, I told her no, or rather that I was unsure, my parents having died at quite an early age, before memory could serve me. She was not deterred, and assured me that I looked a Scot. At this point Mr. Fraser interceded and said that perhaps I was Irish, on account of my colouring. She argued that her brother was as red haired and freckled as I, and Mr. Fraser insisted on Irish._

_I stayed silent, as I did for much of the evening. They make a great deal of conversation themselves. I thought that I would be uncomfortable, but the truth of it is that I was not unhappy to be among them. They are kind and, for want of a better word, unextraordinary. The adventures they have had are those of most people. They have lived ordinary lives. It has been a long time since I have been exposed to that. Since I thought of such people as—I suppose people, and not merely inconveniences in a larger plan._

_I agreed to dine with them again at some point. I believe I may enjoy myself._

_September 27, 1720_

_My thoughts have led me to the moment when I woke alone on the beach. My belongings beside me, that damnable apology from Silver upon them. After I threw aside the letter, I sat a while, my head in my hands, struggling to contain the rage that coursed through my veins._

_I was so certain. I knew what I would do. Nassau would be mine, as I had intended for years. It would be a haven for men like myself, who would not bow to England. I knew this. I knew this. The manner of its doing, I could not say, but because I demanded it, it would be so. How could it be any other? My will had shaped reality for years. It seemed that none but I had this power. _

_And my traitorous crew. After all I had done for them. Did I lie and dissemble? Yes, but never maliciously. I did it for their own good, when they were too stupid to see the rightness of my intentions. Had we taken the_ Urca _, they would have pissed away their shares. Look at those fools who ended up with what should have been our treasure. Calico Jack, on his veritable throne, still derided by all those who knew him, save behind his back now that they pleaded for money to his face. It is as Teach said to me once. Abundance makes fools of most men._

_I was not like them. I had ambitions, I had plans. They could not see that. Instead, they chose to eke out a minor living at sea, under a man who hates the water. Simpletons._

_My bitterness is too great for today. I have a minor ache in my jaw that has been bothering me some days now. I will go to chop wood, to see if that will distract me from the discomfort._

_September 29, 1720_

_I ventured into town again to take dinner at the tavern. My attempts at cooking for myself leave something to be desired. I can cook for fifty or a hundred men if the need be, but have not had to worry about feeding only myself for some time._

_All the tables were occupied, so I found myself having to ask to join one. I chose Mr. Fredericks’ table, as he was alone, and he does not seem the kind of fellow to ask too many questions. He was reliably tongue tied, and some perversity in me enjoyed this. That I could still reduce men to stammers with my mere presence._

_I took the opportunity to ask questions of him instead. I asked about his home, how he finds winters here, what advice he has for someone about to experience a New Hampshire winter for the first time, and the like. He seemed very surprised for the attention. I cannot blame him. My interrogations skills these past few years have not been known for their light touch._

_Speaking of, Tess O’Donnell joined us after serving our meals. She speaks cheerfully, but I am not an idiot. The tavern is always the center for gossip, and the one running it is often the spider who holds all the threads of information. Her questions were subtle, but I understood that she was attempting to draw out information about my past. I kept my focus on the stew she had served and held my answers to one or two words. I understand that to be mysterious will do me no good here, so I must say something, but I do not care to indulge anyone’s curiosity more than is absolutely necessary._

_September 30, 1720_

_I had a distressing dream about Thomas last night. As a result, I spent much of this morning riding Marcus deep into the woods. It was a waste of time._

_I should have_

_October 4, 1720_

_I believe there is issue with one of my teeth. On the upper right of my jaw, the furthest back of my teeth is often sore. Sometimes in the morning the pain is no longer there, but I find that over the course of several days the pain will return before again dissipating. This morning, I checked to see if it was loose, but that did not appear to be the case. It was certainly more tender upon investigation, but not unbearably so._

_For now, I shall leave it be. It does not hinder me, it is merely an annoyance._

_October 5, 1720_

_I finally encountered the Greers who I have heard mentioned several times. I was returning home from town after taking a meal at the tavern—avoiding Tess’ subtle interrogations again—and came across a wagon returning presumably from Siddeston. Mr. Greer rode a small horse, and when he could not see me, I witnessed him speaking over his shoulder to whoever was in the back. Upon discovering my approach, he ceased his conversation, and pretended as though there was no one behind him._

_When we passed one another, we nodded to one another and said good evening. He is some years younger than I, blond and ruddy cheeked. Behind him in the wagon, among supplies, was a Negro woman approximately his age and a small girl far lighter than she. The woman did not look at me. The child, though, smiled and waved._

_I do not know what possessed me, but I raised my hand in reply. The mother noticed and quickly pulled the child’s hand down, wrapping her close as though I was a monster in the night._

_Strange to think that I am not the only monster here. For those people, I suppose all of us are potential monsters._

_October 7, 1720_

_Unfortunately, today Mr. Fraser noticed the discomfort I am experiencing with my tooth. I had come to ask him a question about how best to store my wood, and I find that I do not mind asking these questions of Mr. Fraser. He does not unduly pry as to how I have come to this stage of life without knowing such basics, and I do enjoy his company._

_I was less pleased when he observed that I was having some pain in my jaw. After some days, I know that the pain is likely peaking now, and will be better in the morning. I lied and told him it was an old irritant, to which he replied I should have Mr. Wake look at it before it becomes an irreversible problem. I said that it did not require attention. He quite rightly observed that I had some issue with Mr. Wake, and asked what my quarrel was with him. I said there was no quarrel, but I could see he was unconvinced._

_After a month among these people, I am reassured that I face no danger from any of them. Save, of course, Mr. Wake. I have lived this long and survived many trials by relying on both wit and instinct, and both tell me not to trust the man within an inch of my life._

_I have discerned after careful questioning that it was he alone who decided to approach me with the clothes, despite his claims that the others asked it of him. His pointed metaphor—that I am a stowaway on a ship—has never been far from my mind, and I wonder if he suspects what I am. I do not believe he knows who I am, for even he would have been afraid to face me._

_We have not spoken since I returned the clothing to him, and in the meantime I have collected what intelligence I can about the man. As Mr. Fraser related to me, he arrived at The Edge over three years ago, and set himself up in this strange manner, living outside of the village and keeping a business within it. It is told to me that he has said since he enjoys playing his instrument late into the night, he prefers to live beyond where he would irritate his neighbours. He arrived with the two beasts, who I am told are called Black Shuck (the one that resides at his business) and Cu Sith (the one that resides at his home). I was familiar with the legend of Black Shuck, but Tess was the one who told me that Cu Sith is from Irish myth, a dog whose horrifying bark was meant as warning to lock up your children. I find it rather suspicious that a humble apothecary named his animals, which I must admit are fearsome looking things, after hell hounds._

_The townspeople, however, are very protective of him, and for I imagine one very particular reason: he does not take money as payment. I am told that when one goes to visit him, he either charges not a thing, or tells what he would like in return. Sometimes it is food, other times it is a hand to help with some repair at his residence. Mr. Fredericks told me that Mr. Wake lanced a painful boil for him earlier this year and has yet to request any payment whatsoever. Mr. Fredericks, despite his brand, is one of the more honest men I have encountered, and told me he approached Mr. Wake recently to remind him of his debt, to which Wake replied that he was aware of the manner, but that he required nothing of Mr. Fredericks as of yet. In Mr. Fredericks own words, “He asked if there was anything else he could do for me, sir.” _

_To me it appears very much that the man has worked exceedingly hard to ingratiate himself into this town, to the point where he now seems indispensable. It makes me most curious as to what circumstances led him here. We are surrounded by people who have fled conventional society, but he is the only one who has hidden himself here so neatly that the others do not seem to realize he has done it._

_So no, I shall not be placing myself in the good hands of Mr. Wake. I do not care to be any nearer to him than possible._

_October 8, 1720_

_I had a most peculiar request today. An alarming one, the truth be told._

_I was cutting down a fir tree in the woods when I heard a woman’s voice calling for Mr. Moore. I thought to not reply, but she spotted me through the trees and waved to me. At that point I was without option, so I went to greet her._

_My visitor was Mrs. Walters. She is the wife of the blacksmith, and also teaches the children. I could see that I perhaps offended her when I did not make to invite her in. I had been chopping trees for near on five hours, and was not of a mood to be civil, I am afraid._

_So she made her request of me there. She had heard that I was a retired sailor, and wondered if I might come speak to the children about the profession._

_It has been a strange balance I have tried to keep here this last month. I do not want to alienate these people to the point where they speak about me for lack of information. But I certainly do not want to be a part of their community. I want to be left to myself, to my books, to try and understand what my path is to be in this life now that everything is so damnably uncertain. What I absolutely do not want is people coming to my door, asking questions about my previous life. _

_I said that I had to apologize, but it would not be possible. She was of a mind to argue immediately, but I told her that the life of a sailor was so rough that it would not be appropriate for the ears of children, and I did not wish to improperly influence them. At that I bid her a firm farewell, leaving her as to no doubt on my position regarding the matter. She was clearly displeased, but polite enough not to say so._

_Hopefully news of this interaction will spread, and no one will think to make such a ridiculous request of me again._

_October 9, 1720_

_Dreamed of them again. Cannot sleep. Sat outside for some time. The air has changed for the colder. Autumn is almost gone._

_It is cold. And I cannot sleep._


	6. A Certain Manner of Man

He swings the axe in a practiced arc, splitting it in twain. The sound of it is eminently satisfying.

            Turning, James picks up another log. At this point, he should have enough to get him through the winter. He just likes the action of it, though. He misses the physicality of his old life. This one is far too sedentary. He wonders what he will do in a few months, when the weather makes it so that his options are limited.

            Well, he has a number of books that he has barely touched since arriving here. Perhaps it is time to turn his attention to more intellectual pursuits.

            Wiping sweat from his brow, James squints up at the sky. It is a strange one today. Gray all over, but still somehow bright. It is chill, but the labour has warmed his blood, and he is out back of the house in only his breeches and shirt.

            He has left Marcus out of his pen, knowing he will not stray far. The horse nibbles upon the grass, and James calls to him, “Have we enough, do you think?”

            Marcus ignores him, as he usually does.

            James rests the axe on the ground, and leans on it, catching his breath. His other hand he puts on his hip. He thinks that this all is not so bad.

            Now there is a new thought. A dangerous one, too. He wavers day to day from being resigned to this new life and lying awake at night, scheming over how to reclaim the old one. It would be easy to stay here, and fade into obscurity.

            _Is this how you end?_ a voice snarls. _Pathetic and beaten_?

            James looks around, and thinks, _yes. Perhaps it is._

            He sees it then. A little fleck of sky, gently floating downward. He follows its slow progress until it lands upon the grass, disappearing into the grass.

            Then another piece falls, and another, and another after that. James lifts his head to the sky, watching the flakes begin to swirl down. He watches, then closes his eyes as the snow begins to dot his face.

            A few minutes later, he is inside, opening his journal to write a single sentence: ‘October 11, 1720: The snow began today.’

 

The snow does not last long, and in all truth he can see it begin to melt as he rides towards town. There are little patches of white here and there, but no telling if this change in weather is permanent. Will it do nothing but snow now until spring? Or will autumn rally and shake it off for a few days longer?

            Whatever the answer, James finds himself in relatively high spirits. He has been in this place for a month and a half now, and he is glad for a change, of any kind. Marcus either senses his mood or is made happy by the weather as well. His head bobs up and down as they canter slowly past the edge of town.

            It is later in the day, the sun beginning to lower behind the clouds. James wants to have dinner in town. He wants to know how the others react to this change. If it is cause for celebration or fear. After weeks here, he still cannot predict how the others will perceive the snows.

            _You are getting old and weak_.

            Another voice says, _you are allowed a moment of peace. Let no one take that from you, not even yourself._

            So he rides towards the town square, his cloak out for the first time. It is not really needed—the air is crisp only—but he knows he needs to dress to fit in. To do otherwise would be petty.

            He meets Fredericks coming around the side of a building at a brisk pace. James starts to say, “Mr. Fredericks—“

            Not slowing his pace, Fredericks says, “You don’t want to go that way, Mr. Moore.”

            James pulls up on his reins, turning his head. Fredericks turns, disappearing behind the Walters’ house. Glancing towards the town centre, James reasons that nothing could be that bad. Probably only Smithe acting the drunken buffoon again. James has now seen his act twice, and been about as impressed as the first time.

            So he guides Marcus onwards, coming onto the town center.

            When he sees them, only one possible word comes to mind: _fuck_.

            Standing outside Fraser’s office are three red coated members of his majesty’s army. Fraser stands on the step, arms wrapped around himself, speaking to them cheerfully. He glances up at the sight of James, but his eyes flick back down immediately, not acknowledging him.

            He has only a split second to make his decision. Turn and flee—or see if he is safe here.

            Pulling Marcus’ reins to the left, James calmly guides the horse along the eastern edge of the space, continuing his journey to the tavern. He carries himself loosely, as if he has no cares in the world, but every muscle in his body is rigid and he is priming for a fight.

            Inwardly, he is furious that he does not have his sword. No one here carries a sword, but damn it to hell, his life would be far more certain right now if he had his weapon. He does not doubt that if they came for him, he could disarm one in seconds, but he would feel far more secure with his cutlass in hand.

            Not casting the soldiers a single gaze, he guides Marcus towards the stable behind the tavern. He keeps himself still, going about the motions of tying the beast up, and tells himself that all is well. He came across red coats during his journey to The Edge. There was no issue with them. Just pretend that all is well, and perhaps it will be.

            If not—well, it is not like this is the only place on earth.

            Adjusting his cloak, James walks around the tavern, still ignoring the strangers. He walks through the front door, feeling a terrible pressure on the back of his head. Dismissing it the best he can, he goes to sit at the last available table.

            “Evenin’, Mr. Moore,” Tess calls out.

            He nods, not letting on his apprehension. “Evening.” He sheds his cloak, folding it and setting it beside himself on the bench.

            She walks over with a pint, not having to ask what he wants, and says, “Stew again tonight.” He gives another nod. Hand on her hip, she gestures back over her shoulder. “Saw them, didja?”

            “Hard to miss,” James replies.

            Eyes narrowed, Tess says in disgust, “Smithe.”

            Confused, James responds, “What about him?”

            “Oh, the idiot sent a letter to some cousin o’ his, one who isn’t pickled in his own juices. I don’t know how he convinced them, but he got those men out there to come all the way out here and to see if Milly offed Ned.” She rolls her eyes.

            Not letting himself be relieved yet, James says, “What’s the verdict?”

            With a snort, Tess leans forward, and murmurs, “The verdict is Oliver Smithe and his poncy cousin looking right fools. Robert, he says to me, he says they talked to Mr. Wake and Mr. Fraser, and they told him what happened. Evil prick died of cancer, is the truth o’ it. Terrified poor Milly, I hear they did. Talked to Oliver, and I hear that’s what really sealed the whole affair up tight, once they saw what a waste of space he is, no offense to God, given all his creations are precious to him.” She sighs, and gives him a look. “Suppose I’ll have to put them up for the night here.” She raises a brow. “You still want that stew?”

            There is testing a theory, and then there is pushing one’s luck. “I think I’ll stick to the drink and then make my way home,” James says, slipping her a coin.

            Nodding, Tess says, “If and it please you, sir.” She walks away, wide hips swaying to and fro.

            Not here for him. But possibly coming into this building at any moment.

            It seems like a test. A test of this new life he is not sure he wants or even needs. He can wait for the soldiers to come in and try to blend in among the rest—a thing he does not do well—or he can bolt and hide.

            He is _not_ a man given to hiding. No matter what his present circumstances may suggest.

            So he waits.

 

He waits.

            And he waits.

            Every moment he sits, watching the door, the pressure builds inside. It feels as though his shoulders are in a vise, and every so often it takes another turn. He can count the minutes passing. All these years, he can still ring off the half hour if need be. It has been twenty minutes. At the least.

            They are just outside. He knows they are. Any moment now. Any moment and they will walk into the tavern. He forces his shoulders to relax slightly, leaning over his beer. He cannot look as though he is expecting them. It would be better to even have his back to the door if he is striving for nonchalance, but he simply cannot bring himself to it.

            James has another drink, forcing himself to think logically about the situation. The men were sent here to look into the death of a man who died of cancer. They are not looking for him. He is just a strange man who lives by himself on the edge of town. Another misfit who does not fit into ordered society. No reason to bother him. None at all.

            His internal clock ticks further onwards, and he grimaces. He takes a mouthful of beer, wondering if he should just get up and go. There is no reason for him to sit here and work himself into knots. Those men are not here for him. Why make himself a target, besides pure obstinacy?

            _Hast thou reason? I have._

_When then dost not thou use it?_

The memory of Thomas and those words lessens some of the tension in his body. He is being careless, to prove a point. And the only person he is trying to prove anything to is himself. He is not even entirely sure what he means to demonstrate. That he is not afraid? That his retreat from the West Indies was not made from cowardice?

            It matters not here. This is a world so far removed from that he has known. He does not have to make a point. He has only to live.

            _Willingly give thyself up to Clotho, one of the Fates, allowing her to spin thy thread into whatever she pleases_.

            James thinks, _easier said than done_ , but downs his tankard in one go. It is time to head home.

            The door opens, and he lifts his eyes, adrenaline surging a moment. It moves back in a sick little tide as he sees it is still not the soldiers. Fredericks steps inside, face drawn down with concern.

            He looks about, eyes falling on James, and walks towards him. Tipping his hat to the other men, he says, “Gents,” but he is clearly coming to meet James. He stops by the table, brows furrowed. “Mr. Moore, sir.”

            James gestures across the table for Fredericks to join him. The man sits, glancing about.

            Taking off his hat, he leans forward. In a low voice, he says, “Sir, what are you doing here?”

            Raising his shoulders, James says, “Having a drink. I was about to—“

            “Did I not tell you not to come here?”

            “I suppose you refer to the officers I saw conferring with Mr. Fraser. I have no reason to fear the British army, Mr. Fredericks—“

            “Are you sure?” the man asks urgently. He shakes his head, the brand on his face as always his most prominent feature. “I was watching, sir. To see what they would do. One of the men—he had a look at you. And it was like he saw a ghost.”

            James’ insides go very still and cold. Without betraying a thing, he asks, “How so?”

            “I mean he looked like he saw a _ghost_ , sir. Like he couldn’t believe he was looking at you. He interrupted the older one, and they all moved away from Mr. Fraser. They spoke for a moment, and then they started coming over here.”

            His survival instinct begins to take over. He is in a tavern. The place will certainly be armed. All he need do is find himself a weapon and get to his horse. This is fortuitous. The snow has not truly begun to fall. All he need do is get on his animal and ride away from here.

            “So they come now?” James says, preparing to stand.

            But Fredericks shakes his head once. “No, sir. That may be the strangest part of it all.”

            Frowning, James asks impatiently, “What do you mean?”

            “I mean they started to walk over here, but Mr. Wake stopped them, sir. He looked desperate, he did. They looked over here, and then they left with him.”

            His blood has gone positively icy at the mention of Wake. In an emotionless voice, James says, “Left…where?”

            “Just left, sir. Got on their horses, all of them, and left town. The three red coats, and Mr. Wake.”

            Climbing to his feet, James says, “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fredericks. And if you could keep this to yourself.”

            Fredericks nods, his eyes wide. “Of course, sir.”

            James is striding out of the tavern about five seconds later, swinging his cloak over his shoulders.

            He is going to _murder_ Ezra Wake.

 

For perhaps the first time since the purchase of the horse, James spurs Marcus to his top speed. He bends forward, kicking at his flanks to urge the beast on through the night. The animal is up to the challenge.

            It is a good night for terrible deeds. The clouds block the stars and moon, and everything beyond the town is a smothering black. James can barely see, and he trusts in Marcus to get him back to his property in one piece. If there were not only the one road leading from town….

            Nonetheless, he is no fool. He watches for the slightest movement, and he has no intention of going straight to the house by horseback. He will approach on foot, and he will overpower any who would counter him.

            He should have taken care of Wake weeks ago. Another dark haired man working in his blind spot. James is furious with himself for the oversight. One of the soldiers recognized him, and Wake used the opportunity to ingratiate himself yet again by offering to lead them to James’ property. It is so blindingly obvious.

            He will leave Wake for last. He will take care of his majesty’s lackeys, oh yes, and how, but he will leave Wake to the very end. He will take his time. The monster he has kept caged all these many months will be loosed this night, and they will be lucky to find pieces of that sly apothecary. That is a promise. It is a vow.

            He blows past the winding road to Wake’s property, growling for Marcus to quicken.

            Not again. He will not allow himself to be fooled again. There is no outside thought, no call to quench his passion. He is one man again instead of many, and blood will flow by the gallons if he has his way.

 

Approaching the house through the maples, James keeps a steady but careful pace through the woods. After a month and a half, he knows his property well enough to do this without light. There is the possibility of some animal jumping out, perhaps, but the thought does not worry him. He is hunting a different kind of game.

            Like this, he loses himself. There is only instinct, and focus.

            It is a relief.

            His ears are pitched for the lightest crack, the tiniest whisper. As he comes closer to the house, all that he hears is the sound of the wind, lifting and rustling the leaves.

            When he comes in sight of the building, he patiently lowers himself onto his haunches. For five full minutes, he does nothing but listen and watch. He blinks little, and all that moves are his eyes, scanning from side to side.

            If there are people here, they are very well hidden indeed. Not to mention the horses. James considers that perhaps they did not stop here. That Wake joined them as they went to Siddeston, to get more men. To act as witness. To tell them that he knew something was off about James, that he suspected, that it would not surprise him at all to hear his neighbour is a wanted man. They could be coming with reinforcements.

            That makes no sense. It is two days to Siddeston. Somehow, James does not see Wake simply leaving town without informing anyone else.

            _He could have told someone. You have no idea_.

            No. Something is off about this whole thing.

            He gambles. Standing, he walks to the edge of the trees, and out into the clearing.

            Nothing happens.

            He waits again for some signal that there are men waiting to jump out at him. He can detect nothing. Unease begins to move in, mingling with his previous confidence. Perhaps they have snuck in through the windows. Perhaps they wait inside.

            _Oh, to hell with it_.

            He walks across the yard, pushing open the gate, and wishes there were some light so that he could check for tracks. There will be none of that, though. Instead, he hops up his step, quickly unlocking the door. He shoves it open, then spins out of the way in preparation for attack.

            None comes.

            Frowning, James waits a moment, then glances inside. Confused, he gives it a second, then steps into the house.

            It is empty. Only his things, undisturbed. The fire in the hearth has burned down, leaving little but a glow. He looks for any sign of entry, and comes up with absolutely nothing.

            Shaking his head, he strides across the house until he comes to his chest. Pushing open the lid, he shoves aside the insignificant odds and ends, and takes hold of his cutlass, stored away in its leather scabbard. He shrugs off the cloak, not wanting the extra fabric in the way, and gets back to his feet. He fastens the scabbard around his waist. Then he withdraws the sword.

            It has been some months since he held a weapon in his hand. It practically feels like coming home.

            Now, though, he is left alone in the dark, wondering what has happened.

            He goes to the door, peering suspiciously into the woods. He knows they are out there. They must be. They are coming for him. He will be ready for them.

            A terrible, brief scream shivers on the air. Starting, James looks to the west. As soon as the noise begins, it stops. The sound has chilled him. It was not the scream of any man. It sounded unearthly, like the banshee his mother would tell him haunted the moors.

            A strange uncertainty comes over him.

            He debates, for a moment, his course of action. Then he kicks off his ridiculous shoes, and gets his boots. It appears he must go to Wake to settle this affair.

 

It is a perilous thing, to walk through unknown woods at night. What was his ally only a short time ago now makes everything treacherous.

            He has to take a slow, deliberate pace, pausing every so often to listen. He can only estimate where he will end up in relation to Wake’s house. If he continues in this direction, he believes he will either come upon the road or the front of the home. This way he will be able to make sure that the soldiers are there.

            A queer feeling worms its way down his spine. There is something very wrong about this whole situation. They should have come for him in the tavern. He was unarmed. They should have come for him at his home. They could have been between him and all his possessions, though he would have taken to the road without any thought of going back for his things. There is nothing there that is precious to him.

            This makes little to no sense. Something has gone wrong.

            A light splinters through the darkness.

            He stops, ducking, and watches for a long moment. He can discern no movement. There is possibly a noise, but it could just be the wind. He will have to get closer. Sword in hand, he continues his approach.

            The light reveals itself to be flickering through the windows of the house. It is no more than a few candles, but it is enough to guide James the rest of the way. He strains for the sound of voices, the sight of a body moving through the woods. Only there is nothing.

            _Caution_.

            It is the only thought now. Every step that takes him forward is infused with it. He does not blink, waiting for the moment when this scheme will be revealed to him.

            And when it does, he is struck dumb. He had no intention of speaking, but if someone in that moment had bade him to say what he thought, he would not be able to answer. All he can do is stare at the scene before him, laid out in all its brutality.

            In front of the house lie three dead horses. None of them are Wake’s stubby white mare. No, these were all fine creatures, meant for speed and endurance. Now they lay lifeless in pools of blood, soaking the bare dirt before the front step.

            The faint light coming from the house shows the manner of their death. They were not simply shot through the head. No. They were put to the blade.

            A muffled wail rises on the air, and James looks to the house.

            He has accepted that he does not understand what is going on here, and is now prepared for any and all eventualities. Stepping out from the trees, he walks towards the house, shifting his hold on his blade.

            As he passes the horses, he rewrites what he heard earlier. The scream of an animal in its last moments. Close enough to a banshee.

            Avoiding the blood, James walks up to the door. He puts his head down, and listens. Nothing from within. This is becoming more and more odd. Reaching down, he takes hold of the door. Then he pushes it inwards.

            Standing in the doorway, he beholds the house of Ezra Wake.

            One side of the lower floor is covered in bookshelves. They are all of them filled, and various curios are placed amongst the books. Several chests have been piled upon one another. There are a few chairs, shabby, but sewn back together expertly with mismatching patches. The other wall holds a kitchen and hearth, and cabinets filled with herbs and items the intent of which James cannot tell. Wake’s violin has fallen to the floor, but has narrowly avoided the blood.

            The planks of the floor are covered in it, and no wonder. Two of the soldiers are dead, and not merely dead, but partially—well, disarticulated might be a word for it. One man, thick about the middle, with a receding hairline, has crumpled onto his back. His arm is flung out, but his hand is missing. His guts have spilled from his body.

            The other—much younger—fell against one of the chairs. He is missing half his face, but it appears that he was attacked by an animal. Perhaps that hell hound. His lower left leg is attached only by a thin layer of skin. The man—little more than a boy—sits there with his bowels all spilled out over his lap.

            James takes in the grisly scene, and remembers: _three. There were three_.

            That same pained noise comes again. He looks to the back of the house. There is a door. And leading to it is one wet trail of blood.

            He is careful to keep from stepping into the blood and making any more of a mess. He steps over the lopped off hand, following the trail and droplets and smears.

            The door opens on the outside. From where he stands, he can see where Wake keeps a garden in the summer. What guides his attention, though, is the stable near the trees, and the horse that has been displaced from it. The mare is tied to a tree, dancing anxiously.

            James slips outside, and three things happen in very quick succession.

            The horse shrieks, yanking at her reins.

            From inside the stable, the dog begins to bark.

            Then the door to the stable flies open, a nightmare figure clothed in blood and gore swinging out with sword raised.

            For a long moment, James and Wake look at each other from across the yard. James tries to reconcile this vision with the slick apothecary who irritated him with his machinations. Wake gazes at him with wide, blank eyes. He is soaked nearly head to toe in blood, or what James assumes is blood, having so little light to judge. He holds his sword strangely, in two hands up against the right side of his chest, blade raised skyward and knees placed apart.

            No—James realizes he has seen a man hold his blade like this before. It is the stance Joji took as he prepared for battle.

            After a few seconds, Wake seems to realize who he is looking at. He kicks the door to the stable closed and takes a few steps forward, lowering the sword.

            “What _took_ you so long?” he snaps. “Did you not think time was of the essence?”

            James says, “What have you done?”

            Wake lets out an aggrieved sigh, and looks at James from beneath his brows. “I determined there was a threat and proceeded to eliminate it. Now that you have finally decided to join me—“ He points with his long, flat blade in the direction of town. “I need you to go and get Tess. You’ve cost us enough time with your dallying, so get on that animal of yours and return to town. Tell her—“

            James pushes away from the house and walks through the garden. “What the _hell_ have you done—“

            Wake’s blade shifts again. He aims it directly at James. James understands that it is not the beginning of an attack, but a warning. “All you had to do was turn around and go home for the night. All you had to do. What did you do instead? Rode your horse across the town center like you were an emperor in front of three soldiers of the crown. I had you pegged for arrogant, sir, but I did not believe you capable of this level of idiocy. Congratulations—I am usually a far better judge of character.” He drops his sword, nodding towards the village. “Fetch Tess. Inform her we shall need the wagon. You must use these exact words. Tell her that Ezra is calling in for Robert Senior. Can you do that much, or shall I write it down for you?”

            “Do you understand what you’ve done?” James rasps. “Do you not know what will—you’ve practically called down a war on us all!”

            Fury lighting his face, Wake takes two steps forward. “No! You did, when you chose this place! You are the agent of this. You are the stowaway, and I am the man who allowed you to stay. I am the man who did this so that you do not find yourself upon the gallows, sir. Do not presume to tell me that I do not understand the import of what I have done. You endangered the people of this place by descending upon us like a miasma, and nonetheless it is my duty to make sure that you do not hang.” Shaking his head, he spits out, “Lucky me.” He pivots, and begins walking back to the stable.

            James calls after him, “How did you know?”

            Wake stops, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. He looks up at the cloud covered night with a sigh.

            Then he turns, and a strange transformation overcomes him. His shoulders slump, and his countenance becomes vulgar and shallow. He looks like any of a hundred men James commanded in his third life.

            In a completely different voice, Wake answers, “Becoz I ain’t stupid, Cap’n Flint.”

            He straightens, face returning to normal. Or whatever face it is that this creature wears around others to convince them he is one of their kind.

            It is the first time in many months that he has been called by that name. James suspected that Wake knew he was a pirate, but it did not occur to him that Wake knew who he truly was. If he had, he would have killed him.

            If he could have. The man just slayed three soldiers—and their horses—singlehandedly.

            “The third?” James asks.

            Wake is overcome with frustration for a moment. He bites his lip, but then grimaces and spits aside blood. “Very well,” he says. “If I show you the third, will you stop stalling with these imbecilic questions and just do as you’re bloody well told?”

            Without waiting for an answer, he walks over to the stable, and tosses the door open. He steps inside, where James cannot see. Keeping a very tight grip on the cutlass, James goes to the door, knowing now more than ever that he must always be cautious in the presence of Ezra Wake.

            He has seen some fairly terrible things in his life. He has _done_ many terrible things in his life. He has killed women and children, the guilty and the innocent indiscriminately. He has lived a life that cannot be forgiven for.

            And yet this is new to him.

            What remains of the man is tied to the side of the stall, illuminated by a single candle. He has been beaten badly about the face, and his mouth has been muffled with cloth. He no longer has legs. They have both been severed above the knee. Two belts have been tied tightly to keep him from bleeding to death, but he will not last long. He looks up at James with watery, pleading eyes.

            Behind him, unseen by the poor bastard, but clearly audible to him, the black hound chomps at one of his severed limbs.

            Wake crouches next to the man, lifting some metal implement from the ground. “Corporal Arnold was not inclined to cooperate, so I am afraid I had to resort to barbaric measures. I began with his fingers—Corporal Arnold is now quite acquainted with my cutting forceps—but when that proved ineffective, my katana served its purpose.” Dropping the metal tool, Wake rises to his feet. “I have questioned him, and have the answers I seek. It is time for you to go find Mrs. O’Donnell.”

            With a shake of the head, James says, “I have questions for—“

            Before he can finish his sentence, Wake’s sword flashes through the air. It has lodged into the wood behind the corporal before James has quite realized what has happened.

            The man’s head topples to the ground.

            Wake dislodges the blade from the stall with a soft grunt. Raising the sword, he gingerly wipes the blood from it on his forearm, first one side, and then the other.

            James grabs him by the front of his shirt. “I don’t know who the _fuck_ you think you are,” he growls, “but you have found me at the end of my patience.”

            Instead of his eyes widening, or even having his breath hitch a moment, Wake does not react to what James said. He looks down at James’ grip on his shirt, then raises his eyes.

            He has _no_ fear of James.

            “Flint,” Wake says flatly. “I—am _not_ a man that you touch.”

            It is in that moment that James finally recognizes it. There are very few men that he would back away from. He fought the legendary Edward Teach in bladed combat once, but that would be a very different thing from grabbing the man by the shirt to exert his superiority. Teach would have just looked at him as if he were insane, then killed him. No matter how tough you believe you are, there will always be men tougher. Men like Teach.

            He understands at last that Wake is the very same manner of man.

            He releases Wake, who merely blinks at him slowly. James is at a loss. He has no idea what to do. Every instinct he possesses tells him simply to leave. This whole thing is repellent. He does not want this. He does not want this at all.

            Wake speaks in a careful, conversational tone, watching James without blinking the entire time. “As I see it, you have two options. If you choose to be Flint, you run. Take your expensive horse and your oblivious wardrobe and never darken my doorstep again. I will clean this mess up myself, and we need never think of one another from this day forth. However, if you choose to be Mr. Moore, I require you to return to the tavern. Without being seen, you will speak to Tess. Tell her I require the wagon and her presence, and I am calling in for Robert Senior. We will make this disappear. But you are out of time to decide which you prefer to be, sir. If you are Flint, leave me be. If you are Moore—“ Wake points an insistent finger to the west. “You go do as you are fucking _told_.”

            James rankles at the command. He does not take commands, he _gives them_ —

            Wake can see his hesitancy, his temper rising, and James sees him tighten his hold on his sword.

            All of a sudden, James finds himself tired. Not in body, though perhaps that too. He has run most of his life. He ran from his first life to a life at sea. He ran from his life in the navy to one of piracy. Now he has escaped to an entirely different land, and still Flint—that fucking monster—has followed him here.

            No more.

            Quietly, James says, “Tess. The wagon. Robert Senior.”

            With a nod, civility retaking priority in his tone, Wake replies, “Yes, Mr. Moore. Your haste in this matter would be most appreciated.” As James turns, Wake clears his throat. “Leave your sword. There is no reason for you to take it, and it would be remembered if you are met for some reason on the road.”

            To say that he is reluctant to leave his weapon would be an understatement. But this is a new world. A world in which he is unaware of the rules, and what is lie, and what is truth.

            The truth of it is, this madman just killed three soldiers to keep him from the gallows.

            James plunges his cutlass into the ground, tossing aside his scabbard, then turns and runs.

 

A half hour later he and Tess O’Donnell are taking the turn onto Wake’s property. James has been hidden under a blanket in the wagon since they left the tavern.

            When he showed up, knocking at the back door—first knocking, then pounding—Tess had given him an irritated smile. “Mr. Moore,” she said. “What can I do—“

            Without hesitating, he stated, “Ezra Wake needs you at his house with your wagon. He says he is calling in for Robert Senior.”

            There was no hiding it, not even with the evening dark. The colour drained from her face, and she stared at him for several seconds. When at last she spoke, her tone was hushed. “Right away, Mr. Moore.”

            She has said nothing on the short journey, and he does not believe that they have been seen by anyone. It is now near nine. Everyone will be at home. Even the tavern closes at eight in this small place.

            He feels a light touch on his head. “You can get up, Mr. Moore. We’re almost there.”

            Lifting the blanket, he rises. This time, he can better see the house through the trees. More candles have been lit.

            Tess pulls up hard on the reins as she discovers the horses. Mouth falling open, she gasps, “Jesus wept.” Scrambling off the wagon, she runs past them to the house. “Ezra? Ezra!”

            James follows her, watching as she pauses in the doorway. From behind, he watches her cover her mouth with both hands.

            “What in Christ’s name—Ezra? Ezra, where are you?”

            A voice calls from the backyard. “Here, Tess.” It is followed by a loud _thwock_.

            As Tess moves out of the doorway, James sees that the bodies—and their missing parts—have disappeared. He stays a few feet back from Tess as she goes to the back door.

            She lets out a, “Fucking _hell_!” and stumbles outside.

            In her footsteps, James understands the sentiment. Wake has set up a lamp to better see his work. He has an axe in hand, and swings it down again on the chopping block, separating an arm from a shoulder. There is already a small pile of limbs beside him. He has certainly been at work since James left.

            Looking up, Wake says, slightly short of breath, “Memories, eh?”

            Tess crosses the yard to him, looking at the corpses in shock. “How—how in the name of God did this happen?”

            Coughing, Wake shrugs, and looks around. He points to one of the heads. “That one recognized Flint. Naught to be done about it.”

            Tess knows as well?

            The woman’s face floods with anger, and she yelps, “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you, Ezra? I said to you, did I not say the bloody words to you, soon as I knew? All the opportunities I had, and no, you and your fucking code, you says—“ Wake rests on his axe, letting her get it out of her system. “And meanwhile I could have taken care of him a dozen times over. A dozen times! And who would have fucking missed him? No one, that’s who. You know who’ll miss them?” She points angrily at the bodies. “A hell of a lot more people than no one, that’s how many, Ezra! Jesus Christ almighty!”

            She turns and walks in a circle, pulling on her long red hair.

            Mildly, Wake asks, “Are you quite done?”

            “No! I am not!” She looks him over, and sighs. “Are you hurt?”

            “Am I—“ Wake looks down at himself, surprised. “Oh. I hadn’t considered that.” He drops the axe, and begins feeling himself out. It is hard to tell from sight alone where he has sustained injuries. Right now more blood is visible than skin. Lifting his shirt, Wake discovers two slashes, one across his ribs, the other across his belly. In the lamp light, James can make out other scars. With a grumble, Wake admits, “This one will require stitches. Immediately. Mr. Moore—can I rely upon you to take up my task?”

            James nods, moving forward. Before picking up the axe, he undoes his waistcoat, and sheds both it and his shirt. It is cold, but there are some things blood simply will not wash out of. Another reason he prefers black.

            “Jesus,” Tess whispers. “What are we going to do about this? This—is a terrible business.”

            A hand to his stomach, Wake lets out a small laugh. “Actually, I had an idea about that.”

            He looks to Tess, who gazes back a moment, unknowing. James pulls a leg onto the chopping block, and asks, “I assume the intention is to hide your blade marks, not merely to make for easier disposal.”

            “Quite apt, Mr. Moore.” Wake says to Tess, “Come now. Who here would have reason to kill those men?”

            “Besides his royal highness the pirate king?” Tess snipes, hands on her hips. She cringes as James swings the blade down with his full strength. His body cannot help but enjoy the action. He likes chopping wood, after all. Tess’ eyes widen. “Oh, you must be mad, Mr. Wake.”

            “I just murdered three of his majesty’s agents, Mrs. O’Donnell. I don’t doubt I must be at least a little mad. But who else?”

            “They wouldn’t fall for it. No. Would they?”

            “Who else would have the motive? And consider the fortuitous nature of our locale. He’s on the southern side of the road. He’s likely passed out drunk as we speak. I can add to that, if need be, while we set the scene. A sot he might be, but still a large man, with a powerful anger.”

            James says in disbelief, “Smithe?”

            Wake nods. “The very same.”

            “No one would believe that.”

            “Mr. Fraser wouldn’t,” agrees Tess.

            Derisively, Wake snorts. “Alastair. He is terribly naïve. He’ll believe whatever I relay to him. For heaven’s sake, Tess, he thinks Will Fredericks is an honest man, who merely stole to feed his starving wife.” Wake catches hold of James’ eyes and slumps. “Oh, you must be—“ He waves to James and says to Tess, “This one believes Fredericks too.”

            Hand on her hip, Tess says doubtfully, “Terror of the high seas, wasn’t he?”

            “You understand that I kept Will on lookout for you,” Wake says to James. “He warned you to leave, and then I had him warn you again in the tavern. Good heavens, you don’t think I approached them in town, do you? I waited on the outskirts and told them I could bring them right to your residence and offer them the element of surprise. Instead, I brought them here.” Wake studies James, then shakes his head. “Well, we all have our sunset years, I suppose. The point is, Tess, Alastair will not be a problem.”

            “How do you figure that?”

            With a put upon sigh, Wake holds onto his side, thinking. In seconds, he changes again to breathless and wide eyed. To Tess, he says in a tremulous voice, “Alastair—I—I am afraid I must—no, no there is not the time—not the time to sit, I—“ He pushes back his hair with a shaking hand, looking as though he struggles to stand straight. “I have seen something…something terrible. Something terrible has happened, and—Smithe has done an evil thing, Alastair. I didn’t think him capable, but—yes, yes, well, I was walking into town and I thought to look down his road. Sometimes he falls asleep there, and with the weather—Christ, this isn’t important, why am I—but—but Alastair, I saw—I saw….” He swallows. “It is a bloody scene.” Dropping his voice, he whispers, “He has killed the soldiers. All of them.”

            Then Wake shrugs off the persona, raising a brow to Tess.

            “You know I fucking hate it when you do that,” she responds.

            “My lies have saved you more than once, woman, not to mention the lives of every person in this town.”

            Throwing an arm out towards James, Tess demands, “But why _him_?”

            Wake’s gaze goes cold. “I have made promises that predate my obligation to this place. I will not abandon my oaths, merely because they are an inconvenience to you. Now—enough of this. I have decided upon our course of action, and you will help me achieve my ends, or you and I shall have issue.”

            “All right, all right.” Tess wraps her arms around herself in disgust. “What needs doing?”

            “Well, first I need ten minutes to stitch myself up. You watch him. Make sure he doesn’t take anything off the bodies in an attempt to blackmail us later. And then—“ Wake sighs, with a shake of the head. “We shall have a long, long night ahead.”

            James swings the axe.


	7. Aftermath

_October 13, 1720_

_I will say again that it is foolishness to write of what transcribed on the night of the 11 th and 12th, but I found myself taking this book from its secure place once more to continue the narrative of our deeds that evening. _

_By the time I finished the work of separating his majesty’s men from their limbs, Wake had stitched himself to his satisfaction and also collected a bucket of blood from the beasts who lay expired in front of his abode. Upon seeing that, Tess exclaimed that he meant to do the devil’s work. Considering how calm Mr. Wake seemed about the situation, I cannot claim to have disagreed in the moment, though I held my tongue for much of the evening. I’ve found myself in Wake’s debt, a place I am rather concerned to discover myself._

_We collected the remains of the soldiers and placed them in the wagon, then began the far more arduous labour of adding the horses. I suggested removing the limbs, but Wake decided there was no time. Between the three of us, we managed the feat, though the wagon sagged beneath the weight._

_Through the entire endeavour, Wake made no effort to clean himself. Tess suggested he do so, but Wake said it was better that he not. When I saw what he had planned, I understood what he meant. The man has a heart of ice, this I will not deny._

_The wagon could not take the weight of all of us, so Wake and I walked alongside as Tess guided the horse that bore the burden. He had me fetch Marcus, so I ran ahead, and we joined him to the wagon._

_Our journey took us to a road that I had barely noticed in my previous travels, the entry is so overgrown. Wake and Tess knew it well, though, and we made our way a quarter mile until the decision was made to stop. Tess was requested to create the scene of the murder. I thought that I detected the flaw in the plan immediately, but Wake had already considered it. He took the bucket of horse’s blood and began to splash it about the road in great gouts. We then pushed the human remains off the cart, and left Mrs. O’Donnell to her work. She would put the women to Nassau to shame with how easily she took to the task, though she expressed displeasure._

_Wake and I continued with the cart down the road, until we came to a small home that had nearly collapsed. It was obvious that it was still in use, however, from refuse that was scattered about._

_Wordless, Wake gestured for me to keep hold of the horses. He fetched the bucket from the wagon, which was not entirely empty, and proceeded to further soil himself with the stuff._

_I will admit that I was shocked. After so many years of a life many would consider degraded, which I will admit is thus, it takes a great deal for a person to shake me. To see the apothecary cover himself in horse’s blood as calmly as a lady would slather herself in cosmetics shook me hard._

_When he had completed this, he took one of the swords we had gathered from the soldiers, and disappeared by himself into the dark home._

_I did not think to follow. After the scene I witnessed in the stable, I did not wish to see what he would do. My assumption was that he would blood Mr. Smithe, and if the man were to wake, he would put him to the blade._

_The horses were anxious, and I could not blame them._

_Wake emerged five minutes later, without the sword, but with a hatchet. He was in the process of covering it in blood. He tossed it in the dirt, as if it were of little concern, then rejoined me at the cart, taking the reins._

_We went further along a narrow road, until we reached the banks of the river. I am not sure if it is fortunate that it runs eastward. We turned the wagon about, then together emptied it of its terrible cargo into the fast running waters._

_It was at this point that Wake spoke, which he had not done in the time we were alone. “Pity about the horses.”_

_“Fine animals,” I agreed, for what else was there to say?_

_With that done, Wake stripped out of his clothes and then stepped into the river. It was dark, so I was unable to make out any markings that he might have. He cleaned himself, the blood washing away remarkably easy. In under a minute, it was as if he had not spent his evening engaging in murder and conspiracy._

_He traded his soiled clothes for fresh, then we threw the blanket that had covered the bottom of the wagon away into the waters. The horses had been taken by the water instantly, and the blanket even quicker. And with that done, we turned around and made our way back from whence we came._

_Wake was clever enough to drive the wagon off the road, awkward though it might have been, citing his concern that someone might notice the wagon tracks, though the ground has hardened considerably. We came upon Tess, who had made a rather grisly tableau. With few words, she rejoined us, and we made our way back to Wake’s._

_The rest of the evening was as hard as I have worked on land. Much of Wake’s floor had to be pulled loose. I supplied the planks from my home, having bought more than necessary in my endeavour to expand Marcus’ stable. He and I went about the business of putting down the new floor, though he was not nearly so skilled as I, a thing he apologized for. It was such a peculiar thing to say in the midst of all that we had done that I found myself replying, “No trouble, Mr. Wake.” I believe he might have actually smiled at that._

_Tess had the job of clearing the outside ground of blood, turning it over mostly with a shovel. When she got to the back of the house, she called for Wake. He had, in fact, forgotten about the dog, whose white blemish was now a gore clotted red. Tess was scared of the animal, but Wake, as I understand is his custom, showed no fear, and went about the business of cleaning the hound off, affectionate with it as always._

_We worked the entire night, until the sun began to rise, and we could ascertain in better light the success or failure of our efforts. We had quite ably disguised all evidence of the crime in the home, the stable, and the outdoors._

_The three of us were quite exhausted, and Wake instructed Tess to go home, but to leave him the wagon, saying that he would claim he’d requested it so that he could carry wood into town for his shop. It would also be easier for Tess to return to town unobtrusively. They embraced, and he thanked her, to which she replied that it was her pleasure. A strange thing._

_He then told me to stay at home the next two days, and to act as though I was unaware of what had occurred. If anyone asks what I saw on the night of the 11 th, I say that I saw the soldiers, but when I returned home I saw nothing, the crime having already occurred. It still strikes me as against my nature to take orders, but if we hang for this, it will not be because I deviated from the scheme. I said I would do as I was asked, and then escorted Tess to the end of the road, leaving the next stage of our plan in Wake’s hands. _

_As we parted, Tess had some final words for me. She said, “He may think you’re worth it, but I know that you’re not.” She left me there, and I did not argue._

_I came home, and slept through the day. I woke for a few hours, then slept again._

_Now I am awake, and no one has come to my door. I do not know if Wake has succeeded in his ruse. I think that if he had failed, someone would have come to my door._

_Or perhaps not. Word will have to be sent to Siddeston and further. There will be more officers. I will need to remain here in this house until this madness has passed._

_And madness it is._

_What manner of man slaughters three others for a stranger? What kind of creature is Ezra Wake? I thought him manipulative, yes, perhaps another John Silver. But Wake is no Silver. He is something far more dangerous, and I now found myself quite securely in his debt._

_I fear that is likely a horrifying place to be._

_October 14, 1720_

_I finally ventured into town today, and discovered that thus far everything has gone according to Wake’s plan. Another discovery was that four men died that night, and not three._

_When I arrived in the village, the tension was palpable in the air, and I went first to Mr. Fraser’s, as is my custom when I go to town. He was most up in arms. He feels a great shame and sense of responsibility for not having guessed that Oliver Smithe was capable of so terrible a crime, and is quite convinced he shall lose his post over the affair. I listened to him relate the tale to me, of how the officers had come to town, as I had seen, and then left soon after, though none had seen them leave the village. He said that Oliver Smithe had apparently coaxed them towards his home, which was odd, for they had made clear their intention to Fraser to bed for the night at the tavern. Fraser thinks perhaps Smithe had lured them there with promises or bribes. Upon reaching a point far enough from town that the deed would not be heard, he slaughtered the men in a fit of rage in a manner Fraser could not even describe._

_He was most shaken by the entire thing, and I felt pity for him. This horror, and perhaps the loss of his position, has arrived on his doorstep thanks to my mere existence. He has done me nothing but kindnesses, and I am sorry to have inconvenienced him so._

_I asked after Smithe, what had happened to him, and was taken aback when informed that Smithe had been found dead in his own bed, apparently felled by a wound he received in the attack. Fraser, though sparing of most of the details, seemed compelled to inform me that Smithe had been bathed in gore, that he had taken one of the soldier’s swords—not to mention a finger. The sword was found on the floor of Smithe’s cabin, and the finger was held in the man’s own hand._

_I reacted as best I could, using all my skills of deception, which unfortunately meant wounding Mr. Fraser a touch more. I asked what kind of town this was, where a drunk man could kill so many at once, the inference of course being that poor Fraser might have done something to prevent the incident had he taken Smithe a touch more seriously. Mr. Fraser went quite pale, and agreed with me. I did not see the point in worrying the man any further, and endeavoured to comfort him a little._

_He supplied the information that Mr. Wake was quite distraught over  the events. I see now that Wake was correct in his assessment of Fraser. A good man, but naïve. He believed every word out of Wake’s mouth, and indeed lamented that it was ‘poor Ezra’ who came across the murdered bodies. I wonder how he would react were he to learn that ‘poor Ezra’ fed some of those men to his dog. Wake apparently is playing his role very well, staying to his work and appearing pale and nervous._

_I have learned, however, to never trust appearances, particularly when it comes to that demon._

_My next stop was the tavern, and there were more people present than usual at that hour. They informed me that there would be a gathering tonight at the meeting hall about the affair. I shall go, if only because I am told that every resident of The Edge shall attend._

_It was the most time I have spent in people’s company since arriving here. I was not expected to speak, only listen, as everyone related the Smithes’ many terrible deeds over the years. Somehow, I feel that the act of simply sitting there with open ears has endeared me to the townsfolk more than any of my other actions thus far. Tess, however, was quite clear from her gaze of her low opinion of me, though she shielded it in front of the others._

_Only one other thing occurred of note. Mr. Fredericks came in briefly, though there was no room at the table where I sat. He caught my eye, and winked at me._

_This place seemed very simple when I arrived. Increasingly, I am aware that is not the case._

_October 17, 1720_

_Soldiers arrived in town yesterday. I was in the tavern upon their arrival, and like several others made a polite exit when the news came. I returned home, and will stay here until either they have gone or I am arrested._

_October 18, 1720_

_I cannot get Wake out of my mind._

_How is it that once again, I have so completely misjudged someone? Is it that I am merely capable of detecting one manner of danger, the kind that comes at one all a bluster and obvious, and incapable of recognizing the snake that whispers in one’s ear?_

_Silver, I knew he was trouble from the very beginning, only I underestimated him and he out maneuvered me. Wake bothered me as well, but I had no concept of the violence of which he was able. It did not even occur to me that the man had been in a fight before, given his size and demeanour._

_The man is a liar, however. I will know his story. I will know what I am facing._

_I assume the soldiers will be here several more days. In the meantime, all there is to do is read and maintain my post in case someone arrives. I would not have strangers, particularly those in red coats, go through my belongings._

_October 21, 1720_

_The soldiers have gone, as of this morning. The village is still vibrating with the macabre event that took place amongst them, but all of them played their roles very well._

_I cannot tell how many of them actually believe Smithe committed the offense. The evidence against the man was overwhelming, but the town had seen his pitiful performances in the square on multiple occasions, and none took him seriously. Now that he is dead, everyone says that they always knew he was capable of such terrible deeds, and indicative of the Smithes in their final decades of degradation. He has gone in the span of a week and a half from the village fool to a monster they will tell stories about for decades to come._

_Many of them have been to the property, I’m told. They have been in and out of the cabin, have seen where Smithe lay dead. People are gruesome, and will always want to see proof of the horrors that heretofore have only been hinted at. Any misstep we may have made on the property was obviously disturbed by the onlookers, and the story was apparently believed by the small group of soldiers who came and then left._

_Fraser, fortunately, has kept his position. Everyone vouched for him most sincerely. I am glad he will not have to suffer for my sake._

_Now that it is safe, tonight I will go to Wake’s. I will have the answers I seek. Too long have I allowed these slippery men to operate about me. I will grab hold, and I will have answers._

 

He is _not_ happy to see Wake sitting on his front porch, clearly waiting for him.

            James comes around the corner on Wake’s property, only to find that Wake has the upper hand. Yet again. It is late afternoon, the sun just below the horizon. Wake should still be in town. James meant to surprise him.

            _You should know better by now_.

            There is an inch of snow on the ground, and the skies have clouded over, threatening more to come. Wake sits on the step of his porch with his coat on and some manner of soft brown shoes, the like of which James has not seen before. The black hell hound, Cu Sith, lies across Wake’s lap. In truth, the dog looks near as large as Wake. The man pets her head, nuzzling against her fur.

            His meticulously sharpened, Oriental sword sits quite pointedly beside him.

            Coming to a stop, James stands ten feet from Wake. He takes a good, long look at the man, not having to bother with pretending. He tries to remember if they have met in some other land. He has met so many over the years that the faces blend together.

            And Wake does have a face that one might remember. The short black hair, the dark almond shaped eyes. The slight crook of his nose. His skin is olive toned. Handsome enough. James tries to pinpoint his ancestry. Portuguese, maybe? The name is no help—if Ezra Wake is this man’s real name, James will eat his shoes.

            Wake gazes back, not pretending either. He blinks little, merely petting his dog and watching to see what James will do.

            Straightening his shoulders, James says, “I’ve come—“

            “I know why you’ve come,” Wake says flatly. “And the answer is no.”

            James does not speak.

            Lowering his eyes to his animal, Wake runs his hand along her spine. “You have come to demand answers. To know who I am, and how I am capable of such things. You want to console yourself that you are in control of this situation, and to assert yourself as the dominant party.” Those inscrutable black eyes lift once more. “The answer is no.”

            Grimly, James says, “You know who I am. What you say—is unacceptable.”

            “I know that you are Mr. James Moore, of Dudley, New Hampshire. Retired merchant captain. Loyal subject to the crown. A man who wants peace and quiet.” Wake gives his head a slow shake. “I am not afraid of Mr. Moore. Just as I was entirely unafraid of Captain Flint. You have nothing to scare me with, sir.”

            “It would be a foolish thing indeed, for you to believe that.”

            “Between you and I, you have underestimated me, and I have overestimated you. I had heard legend of your arrogance, but I believed your survival instinct would supersede it. You proved me wrong. I know who you are, Mr. Moore. Captain Flint. Whichever moniker you prefer. You do not know who I am. I’d advise you not to threaten me. You are indebted to me. Not I to you.”

            “That was not a situation for which I asked.”

            “You forced my hand when you paraded yourself in front of those officers like a peacock,” Wake says, unable to cover his disdain.

            “There was no reason for you to intervene.”

            Wake sighs. He looks tired. “You,” he says carefully, “are a member of my crew. This town is my vessel. I am its captain. I was elected, though no votes have ever been tallied. I will keep my men—and women—safe, to the very best of my abilities.”

            “And Smithe?”

            “A gangrenous limb, sacrificed to save the greater whole. He was not useful to me. You might still prove to be.”

            “Let me make myself perfectly clear—“

            Closing his eyes, Wake says, “You—lost.” He shakes his head again, looking up at James. “You had your chance to leave. You chose to stay. You live here under my conditions, or you leave.”

            “And if I do neither?”

            “I kill you,” Wake says without hesitation. “You want to be stubborn, want to give commands and lead, well—I am sorry, sir, but that is not an option. Cross me, and I kill you. You’ll say that many men have threatened that before. None of them succeeded. But look at me when I tell you this. I—if you ever, _ever_ get in my way—will fucking murder you. And what I did to those men—their deaths will seem a kindness, if you ever force my hand. I will not extend you any mercy. It will not be quick. I will not enjoy it, because I do not enjoy killing. It is a necessity at times. Only I will be forced to kill you slowly, to prove to myself that the next man who poses a danger to my community will not succeed.”

            He speaks so clearly and unguardedly that James does not doubt he believes what he says. Yes, Wake is a liar, but the way he killed the soldiers—he is not a man to be trifled with. If he says he will strike back, it is best to err on the side of caution.

            Wake must see the realization on his face, because he seems less interested in James’ presence. Rubbing a hand beneath his dog’s muzzle, he states, “You and I will keep our distance from one another. If anyone asks why the animosity, the answer will be that we had words over my late night sessions with my violin. We will have nothing to do with one another unless absolutely necessary, because we are dangerous men, and I fear what will happen to our neighbours should we come into greater conflict.”

            He pushes the dog off his lap, and she sits up with a light growl, turning her gaze on James. Wake picks up his sword, handling it as easily as another limb.

            “I have done you a great service, Mr. Moore,” he says. “One day, I will come to you, and ask for a favour.” He swishes the blade through the air at his side, and gazes up at James. “You will do me this favour I ask, and then you and I shall be even. Until that day, unless it is absolutely necessary, I advise you to step…lightly.”

            Yes. It is Teach that Wake reminds him of. More than anyone else. He is about half Teach’s size, and dresses like a humble apothecary, but what lays beneath—it is recognizable.

            James nods once, then turns. The snow starts to fall as he goes, covering his tracks behind him. He does not look back to see if Wake watches as he leaves.

            Somehow, he thinks that Wake goes inside the moment he is gone from sight, if not before. It has been a long time since James has been dismissed, or has allowed himself to be. He realizes, with shame and shock, that this is exactly what has happened.

            _A strange place I have found myself_ , he thinks, and walks home in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Part One: Autumn. There will now be a two day break, and Part Two: Winter begins on Wednesday.  
> Thank you so much to those of you who have been reading. Special thanks goes out to those who have left kudos, subscribed, or commented. I would love to hear what you think of the story so far, and always reply to comments. Also, to that one lonely soul who privately bookmarked, I don't know who you are, but I think you're awesome.  
> You can come talk to me on Tumblr at e-sebastian.tumblr.com, and if you think I'm going to put myself through the sheer infuriating madness of trying to embed that link again, you must be out of your mind. All hail copy and paste, my friends.  
> Thanks again, and I will see you on Wednesday.  
> PS. I looked at the chapter numbers and thought, "That doesn't seem right," went back and counted, and good grief, was I off by about, oh, ten chapters. So it's actually twenty seven, unless I've miscounted again.


	8. Winter: Pelican and Parrot

WINTER

The first thought through his mind is not one he would utter in polite company. Seeing as he is alone and in his own bed, James has no problem hissing, “Jesus fucking _Christ_.”

            His hand goes automatically to his jaw. He has had little sleep for days. The pain has increased to the point that it is difficult to fall asleep at night. It used to rise and fall, building over the course of days, then blessedly breaking while he slept. That relief has since passed. The agony radiating from his tooth is a constant companion.

            Pushing himself up, he gingerly rests his hand along the side of his jaw. It throbs.

            For a week it has been near unbearable. He attempted to probe the point of pain several days ago and actually saw stars a moment. He has not made the effort since.

            Fraser thinks he is a fool. “You cannot hate a man so much to suffer indefinitely,” he chided the other day. “It’s just music, Mr. Moore. No reason to hold your pride over so petty a concern.”

            James exhales frost, and realizes that the fire has burned down. He gets to his feet and walks to the hearth. Adding a log to the near extinct flame, he stabs at the fire until it begins to spring once more to life.

            Miserable, he goes to his table. He was in such straits last night that he left his journal out where anyone could see. His calloused fingers brush over the last line. ‘December 27, 1720—This is becoming untenable.’

            Wrapping his arms around himself, he shuffles to the front door, and pushes it open. Snowing again. The layer on the ground rises almost to his calves. When he is on his own property he wears his old boots. To town, though, he wears those ridiculous shoes and ends up with wet stockings as a result.

            Everyone tells him that it has been an average winter. There have been several blizzards where he was forced to shovel his way from the back of the house to the stable, Marcus waiting to be fed in consternation. The days are short, the nights long, and no matter how high the fire, he always feels a chill.

            Closing the door, James walks slowly to the table. He drops tiredly into the chair, rubbing a hand over his red hair, which has grown out some inches. He shuts his eyes against the constant ache, trying to find something other than stubborn pride to carry him.

            Of course, that gentle voice arises, murmuring, _And thou wilt give thyself relief, if thou doest every act of thy life as if it were the last, laying aside all carelessness and passionate aversion from the commands of reason, and all hypocrisy, and self-love, and discontent with the portion which has been given to thee._

Damn it.

            With a very put upon sigh, James goes to get dressed. He must to town, it would seem.

 

The last two months have been blessedly free from conflict. After the initial concern that more soldiers might return, his worry faded.

            He spends much of his time reading, contenting himself during the storms with a candle and a good book. They bring back memories, and take him far from this place.

            Not that this place is terrible. No. James finds himself increasingly fond of it, and its populations of iconoclasts. When he goes to the tavern now, he sometimes joins the others, and sometimes not, though they understand it is just his way. Tess still hates him something terrible, but she has yet to poison his food or drink.

            He even went to Christmas service, if only because Fraser told him everyone did, regardless of religious conviction, and that it was one of the few times of year that the neglected parson could expect a full audience. James went, but sat at the back by Fredericks, who was with his daughter. He managed not to sigh, but for some reason the parson kept looking at him, then darting his eyes away. It took James awhile to notice that he was _staring_ at the parson without blinking, a habit he doubts he shall ever be cured of. He tried to look a touch more ordinary after that. Failed, most likely.

            Christmas dinner was spent with the Frasers, who made as always the best of dining companions. It was during the meal that Fraser commented again on his obvious discomfort.

            James has become accustomed to the rhythms of the town, and they to him. The Smithe massacre was the best thing that could have happened for a man attempting to hide in a small town. The speculation about his point of origin quickly disappeared in favour of endless retellings of the Smithes’ many misdeeds. James moves amongst them, with little worry.

            For the most part.

           

He rides into town, tilting his head to the few who are outside. Marcus raises his feet jauntily out of the snow, giving James a bit of a bounce.

            “Stop that,” James orders, each jostle a new spike to his jaw, but Marcus is a terrible pain in the rear at the most inopportune times.

            Riding into the center, James guides the horse to the apothecary. He looks at it with antipathy and suspicion. He has never been inside. When he first came to this town, he swore that he would not enter it. It has been a promise easily kept. Until now.

            A new wave of agony rises through his upper jaw, and James bites into his lip so deeply he wonders if he shall bleed. Dismounting, he tethers Marcus to the front of the shop. Normally, he would instruct the animal to behave himself, but today he has no patience for conversations with his horse.

            James walks up to the door, and looks over the small building. The windows are shuttered. With a frown, he opens the front door.

            Almost immediately, he is confronted by Black Shuck, who comes running at him with open jaw and ravenous snarling.

            James ducks back, slamming the door. On the other side, he hears the hound growling and barking at him. He waits for Wake to call it off, but no such order comes.

            _Jesus Christ, he isn’t here_.

            A wave of frustration rushes over James. Two months of avoiding so much as eye contact with the bastard, and when James finally needs him the man is nowhere to be found.

            Swallowing, the motion making him wince, James lifts his head and looks for tracks. It is easy to find people in this weather, he will say that much for it. It looks as though there is a great deal of traffic from the shop, but there are some fresh tracks that lead around the side of the building. Adjusting his black cloak, James follows them, determined to run Wake down. He is not making this particular journey again.

            He walks between the two buildings, and hears the laughter of a child. She sounds giddy, speaking and whooping. She then lets out an “ouch!” but a moment later is laughing again.

            Emerging from between the buildings, James finds his quarry. Wake sits on the edge of a frozen pond with a woman James has never seen, watching a girl equally unfamiliar to him. The child is skating on the ice, arms out and wobbling, but having a grand time.

            “Arms up,” Wake instructs. “Keep your balance.”

            “See, Mr. Wake? Am I doing well?”

            “Beautifully.”

            The child is plain, but red cheeked with happiness. She turns in a slow circle, her arms wind milling, then laughs as though she has just conquered the world.

            Wake claps, smiling. “Excellent. Didn’t I tell you that you’d like this?”

            “You did.”

            She falls over abruptly, onto her backside, and the woman is quickly on her feet. “Are you all right?” she asks worriedly, going to pick up the child. Her clothes are tattered. They are nowhere near wealthy enough for such a thing as ice skates.

            “Quite all right,” the child replies.

            The woman worriedly brushes the snow from her, and as she moves, James can suddenly see the left side of her face. Where her eye should be, her face has been partially caved in. She bears the bumps and bruises of other hurts long since healed. Looking at her, trying to see past the old wounds, James realizes that she is little more than a girl herself.

            She looks up, and sees James. Immediately she goes rigid with fear, and pulls the girl closer to her.

            Wake follows her gaze, and his expression changes to one of detached civility. “Mr. Moore.”

            James just gives him a bare nod.

            Studying him, Wake says, “It must be very serious indeed.” With a sigh, he pushes himself to his feet, and smiles to the women. “My friends, I fear business calls me away. But please do practice as much as you like.”

            “You spoil us both, Mr. Wake,” the woman, presumably Mrs. Smithe, says bashfully.

            “I suppose I do.” Wake holds his arms out from his sides, and tells the girl, “Like this until you’ve learned to keep your balance. It will come, I promise.”

            “Yes sir,” she says with a grin.

            He pokes her nose and she giggles. Then he turns from them and strides over to James, who waits by the trees. He wears a dark coat instead of a cloak, his hat missing.

            Upon reaching James, Wake says conversationally, “I’ll assume your tooth is grieving you.”

            James does not bother to be surprised. He simply works on the belief that Wake knows everything that occurs in the town. “Indeed.”

            Wake leads him to the back of the shop, opening the door for him. James steps inside, inhaling the scent of herbs and tinctures. He stands still, uncomfortable.

            Shedding his coat, Wake hangs it up, then turns to James. Arching a brow, he asks, “May I take your cloak, sir?” Frowning, James gives it to him, and Wake hangs it up with what James swears is a smirk. Nodding across the small room, separated from the front of the shop, Wake says, “Have a seat.”

            There is a heavy table against the wall, a set of drawers underneath. Two smaller tables book end it. Reluctantly, James sits upon the large table, gripping the edge with both hands.

            Wake was obviously working before his break at the pond, his sleeves already rolled up. The dog sits obedient as anything by the doorway, panting innocently. Wake waves him off. “You. Front door.” With a wag of the tail, the dog turns and leaves.

            James cannot help but remark, “It seems you are used to all doing your bidding.”

            Wake pauses, then says, “I suppose I am.” He takes hold of a cord on the wall, pulling it down a few feet. Above them, a skylight is uncovered.

            Craning his neck, James observes, “A strange thing to have.”

            “I prefer the light from above,” Wake remarks, tying off the cord. “A dreadful pain in the winter. I have to go up there with a bloody ladder every time it snows.” He puts on a leather apron, large enough on him that he can tie it at the front of his waist. James notes the old flecks of blood. “Very well, Mr. Moore. Let us see about your tooth. Lay back, please.”

            James does no such thing.

            Wake raises his brows, then crosses his arms. “I can examine the source of your distress, or you may brood at me. The former is helpful, and the latter is a waste of both our time. So please, Mr. Moore.” He gestures, voice softening incrementally. “Lay down.”

            Oh, to hell with it.

            James turns, drawing his legs up onto the table. He lies down, scowling.

            It only gets worse when Wake moves over him. “If you would open your mouth, please.”

            “And what favour will you ask for this?” James says testily. “What boon will you request?”

            “I do not know, Mr. Moore. Your usefulness has not revealed itself to me yet.” Reaching towards James’ face, Wake remarks, “Though that is a very fine horse.”

            James snatches Wake’s wrist. He can feel the strength in that slim arm, but he has no doubt—if need be, he could snap it like kindling.

            As unshakeable as always, Wake merely looks at his grip and continues, “A jest, Mr. Moore. I know better than to separate a man from his horse. Besides—“ He lightly twists out of James’ grasp. “Kelpie suits me just fine.”

            “Of course _you_ would ride a pale horse,” James mutters.

            Wake does actually smile at that. “Open your mouth, please.” He waves a hand over the right side of James’ jaw. “Here?” James gives a slight nod, wondering how he can tell. As if he reads minds, Wake says, “Your jaw is swollen.”

            Not quite ready to fully give himself over to Wake’s ministrations, James says, “The pain comes and goes. Steadily worse over the course of days before breaking. This time it has not broken.”

            Almost gently, Wake says, “Let me see.”

            James realizes this is another face that Wake wears. The patient apothecary. No wonder the townsfolk love him so. With a grimace, James cracks open his mouth.

            Putting a hand to the left side of James’ face, Wake prompts, “A little more, Mr.—well, Moore.” James watches silently as Wake bobs his head downwards, studying the inside of James’ aching mouth. His black eyes are entirely focused. He makes a small sound from the back of his throat.

            When he lets go, James immediately closes his mouth. Wake goes to get a tall chair, apparently specially made for this purpose, then brings it up alongside the table. He leans against the top of it a moment, considering James.

            Voice low, Wake says, “When I said that you and I ought to interact only when necessary, I still meant that you could come to me when it _was_ necessary.”

            “And be indebted to you further?” James says with bitterness. “I think not.”

            “What vexes you more at this moment?” Wake asks. “Your pride, or your mouth?”

            _Probably both in equal measures_ , James thinks.

            “I can see from the inside of your mouth that you’ve done this before. You know what this is.”

            Grimly, James says, “Infected.”

            “ _Quite_ badly,” Wake says without cushioning the blow. “You understand that if you leave such a thing long enough, the infection can spread to the rest of the body.”

            “Are you going to lecture me or remove the bloody thing?”

            “Both,” Wake says, and James sighs with frustration, staring up at the skylight. It has been positioned directly over the table. It is edged with snow, but gives him a clear view of the blue sky. “The reason the pain has come and gone is because the pus has built up in your mouth, and drained into it while you were sleeping. Repeatedly, if what you tell me is true. If this happens again, don’t leave it so long, Mr. Moore. Better to take care of it when it begins.”

            “Are you finished?”

            Wake sighs with exasperation, then goes to the cupboards that line the wall. He removes a polished wooden case, then returns to his chair, this time sitting down. Opening the case, he withdraws a very familiar instrument. “I’ll assume you’ve seen one of these before, sir?”

            The thing reminds James in construction of both shears and claws. “Pelican,” he says evenly. “Do not think you can frighten me with that.”

            “Oh, we’re past the point of the pelican, sir.” Wake gives it a wave, as if to demonstrate its uselessness. “The tooth in question has decayed to such an extent that I would be unable to extract it without the thing crumbling, and then we’ll both be worse off than when we started.” Dropping the instrument, Wake looks over his things a moment before lifting another instrument. “This one has several names, but you might know it as a parrot’s bill.” He traces the outline of the pincers at the end. “On account of the shape.” Frowning at it, he gives his head a shake. “As it is, the tooth will still likely shatter, and then I’ll have to use the root drawer. All of which, sir, could have been avoided had you come to me when the pain first began.” He goes to place his instruments on the small table above James’ head. “Whatever the case, Mr. Moore, you and I are in for an unpleasant afternoon.”

            “Just get on with it.”

            “Very well. Off with your waistcoat and shirt.” James looks back at him. Wake shrugs. “You’re likely to bleed, sir. If you’re hesitant because of the presence of your scars, I can assure you—I have certainly seen graver.” He leaves the room a moment, ducking through the curtain.

            James hesitates. Then he sits, unbuttoning his waistcoat. He folds it, then shrugs out of his shirt. He shivers momentarily, but resigns himself to it. After so many years in the south, he is unaccustomed to what others feel is a normal temperature. Dropping the clothes on the floor, he lays back, taking deep breaths through his nose.

            He has been shot, stabbed, near drowned, almost set on fire once—but every man fears what happens when those devilish metal instruments come near one’s mouth. Even he. The last time he had a tooth removed, he had the good fortune of being extremely drunk, with four strong men to hold him down.

            Wake returns with a basin of water and a cloth over his arm. Setting them down, he looks at James, then says, “I apologize, Mr. Moore. You’re cold. A moment, please.” He leaves again.

            _How in the hell could he tell_? It really is a question that James should learn to stop asking himself.

            He hears the sound of logs being thrown into a stove, then Wake comes back, pushing his sleeves further up. “Give it a few minutes.”

            “Stop it.”

            “Stop what?”

            “This charade. I know what you are, and— _this_ is not it.”

            Wake smiles crookedly, and begins to roll up bandages. “Mr. Moore, you’ve seen what I’m capable of, but do not presume that is who I am. And perhaps even my exasperation with you has its limitations when professional considerations are in play.” Picking up a roll of bandage, he leans over James. Quietly, he says, “I am very good at what I do, and I take pride in that. Now, stop being childish. Open.”

            Unbelievable. That a man at least ten years his junior and likely forty pounds lighter can bat him down so easily. Displeased, James opens his mouth.

            Inserting the bandage on the left of James’ mouth, propping his jaw open, Wake murmurs, “Good. Shall we begin?”

 

Seconds after the tooth shatters, Wake says conversationally, “Did you enjoy the frost fairs in your youth, Mr. Moore?”

            The question is so bizarre that it detracts from the shrieking knives of pain that have just taken up residence in James’ mouth. He bites harder into the rolls of bandages keeping the left side of his mouth open, and looks at Wake with furious confusion.

            Wake has calmly swapped out the parrot’s bill for a much smaller instrument that looks like a bird’s skull at the end. He puts a hand to James’ forehead, pushing his head firmly back against the cushion on which it rests, keeping his head at an angle. James can feel his slick sweat beneath Wake’s hand.

            Returning to his work, seemingly at perfect ease, Wake slips the metal instrument into James’ mouth, and begins the task of pulling shards of teeth. James squeezes shut his eyes.

            Wake, the bastard, talks the entire time. James has no idea why he has started now. He was generally quiet while separating the gum from the infected tooth, then attempting to pull it with the parrot’s bill.

            “Judging from your accent, I’d say you’re a Londoner, like myself. Certainly not high born, or I would have heard that about you when the myth of you was passed about. Closer to my class, then. So I imagine you would have made your way to the frost fairs, depending on the year. Myself, I’m 36. About to be 37 in a few weeks’ time. So I was born in 1684, in the greatest frost the city can recall. This weather, the pond out back, puts me in mind of it.”

            He yanks out a piece of tooth, and James braces his hand against the wall. He has made little noise thus far, and he refuses to give Wake the satisfaction.

            “That year the Thames froze over a foot thick. Can you imagine it, sir? Do you remember that year? I only know what I was told. I was not expected to live, it being so cold. But down upon the river, all those people making merry, laughing in the face of that terrible danger—I have always enjoyed the idea of that. How resilient people are in the face of what should frighten them terribly. Either that, or they’re merely fools, but I believe it to be a matter of perspective.”

            For a moment, James can see it. The boats being dragged by horses, the laughter, the horrible bite of the frost but above all the giddiness of the day.

            He bears down when Wake takes another piece out of his mouth. “I grew up hearing so much about that winter that I could not wait for the event to come again. I had to wait until ’95. It was worth it. All the people—it seemed as though half of London was there. There were so many sights and smells that I did not mind the cold. Not in the least, not for a moment. All the booths, and those brightly coloured tents—my brothers and I could barely believe our eyes. The roast beef tent, the smell of coffee—people playing nine pins on the ice—the bull baiting—the toy shop, Christ, for boys that age, we couldn’t help ourselves. When I think of London, I think of those days on the ice. And when it snows here, and the pond out back freezes, I think of London.”

            With a twist, he pulls out another shard, and James clenches his eyelids tight. He bangs his fist against the wall a few times, thinking of snow. Of 1684.

            Then Wake has a hand under his neck, and is pushing him up. “Excellent, Mr. Moore, that’s the hard part finished.” He tugs the bandages from James’ mouth, and puts an empty basin under his mouth. “Spit.”

            A touch light headed, James does as he is instructed. He spits blood across the white enameled surface. Wake gives him a glass of water, telling him to spit again, and James obeys.

            All the while, he realizes that Wake is still holding the back of his neck. “Very good, Mr. Moore. Now we finish.” Letting James back down, Wake sets down the basin.

            “Finish?” James says hoarsely.

            Taking away the glass, Wake says, “I’ll clean out the wound, put in some stitches, and send you on your way. Catch your breath.” Wake sips from the glass, then sets it aside. He dips his hands, bloodied, into the basin of water, ever present rings on his second finger and thumb. He goes about threading a needle, obviously giving James time to collect himself.

            “I’m ready,” James says, refusing to appear any weaker than he already has.

            “I am not,” Wake responds. “If you want to be a help, you can put those bandages back in your mouth, thank you.”

            James puts the dreaded things back between his teeth. His jaw aches from being propped open, but he must admit—the pain that has followed him these last few weeks has disappeared, leaving only a manageable throb in its stead.

            When Wake is prepared, he returns to standing over James, carefully slipping thumb and forefinger between his lips. “This may be a bit tender, Mr. Moore,” he says, “but somehow I think you will manage.”

            As he cleans the wound, he talks about the frost fair of 1695, and James listens.

 

Lighting a candle, James drops tiredly into his chair. The right side of his mouth is exceedingly displeased about its lot, but he imagines that it is preferable to dying from a damned toothache.

            Wake—the bastard—is a good apothecary. That much is clear. James has been under the knife of far less qualified men, men who had to be suitably drunk before doing surgery, and he will admit that Wake is the most skilled he has come across. It was an unpleasant experience. God almighty, was it an unpleasant experience.

            But it could have been far worse, and he recognizes that.

            He pulls his journal from its place beneath the floorboards, flipping it open. He sees the only line he wrote yesterday— _This_ _is becoming untenable—_ and he snorts a little. For once he is amused by his self-seriousness.

            Opening up the ink well, he dabs his quill inside, then begins to write.

 

_December 28, 1720_

_I have learned that Ezra Wake was born in January of 1684. He has brothers, and was at best of the merchant class. He is quite skilled at discussing an event without giving away too much information about himself._

_I am afraid this is now twice that the man has saved my life. My pride prevented me from seeking his aid earlier, aid which he gave willingly and without any visible smugness. He turned away my offer of money, as I feared he would. After seeing the kind of favours he accrues—given what Tess O’Donnell thought she owed him—I cannot say I look forward to the day when he calls upon me._

_My pain is less. That is some comfort._

_Now that he has opened these memories, I cannot help but think of ’84 and the frost fair. It was the first happiness I had since my father’s passing._

_It is quite possible that Ezra Wake is a demon sent straight from hell. I am still of two minds about it._

            James looks at the words, then shakes his head. He thinks he will sleep tonight. To do so would be a relief.


	9. Miranda

_January 2, 1721_

_Today would have been her birthday._

_It is strange, that after all these years, after these months in solitude, I still find it difficult to write her name. Let alone his. Miranda. Thomas._

_Today should have been Miranda’s birthday. I do not know what age she would have been. I asked once in a moment of cheek, and she quite fairly put me in my place._

_All those years in Nassau, I was so short with her. We had near a decade on that island, and I showed her very few kindnesses. I provided for her, yes, but our lives, unsurprisingly, were so very different from what came before. I was so different from who I had been before, a fact I knew but perhaps did not recognize the extent of until it was too late, the transformation irrevocable._

_Miranda, however, stayed herself. More serious, yes, and no longer gilded in the finery I always associated her with in the first years of our acquaintance, but she remained recognizable to me. I do not think she could have said the same for myself._

_I find myself thinking of our early years. She was unlike any other woman I had ever encountered. Women of a lower class will be forward in a way that I found off-putting in my younger years, and women of a higher class treated me with civility and aloofness. Miranda, though, never cared for what others thought. She was effortless in her elegance. Coy, but never unkind about it. Her attitude, her lack of shame while still remaining somehow above it all was a constant wonder to me. At first, I admit, my preconceived notions of how a woman ought to behave caused me to withdraw from her, thinking that she was one of those ladies who shock others just to quell their boredom. I soon realized she was far more than that, or she charmed me out of such a notion. Perhaps a little of both._

_I thought her perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. It was not only her appearance, but her intellectual rigour, her certainty, her manner. I did envy Thomas. How could I not? She was unlike anyone I had ever known, as was he. They were so perfectly matched. I was shamed that I thought of her when I was not with her, but I reasoned that I thought of them both. They were my friends. My dearest friends._

_I know that it was not a betrayal of Thomas, that I slept with her, but I only know that given what came after. In the carriage, the first time, I was fully aware that I was betraying my closest friend. I believed I was doing what they later accused me of, what they said broke his heart. I could tell myself in the moment that it was a lapse, that I had been temporarily blinded by her beauty and her charm. It was so fast, she and I in that carriage, finished by the time we reached their home, and she left me with a smile that left a kind of burning inside my chest._

_The moment she was gone, though, I realized what I had done. I could not face Thomas for shame. He had treated me so well, had welcomed me into their home. I never had a friend like him before, or since. And yet, how had I repaid him? I made a cuckold of him. He hinted to me in the past that Miranda had taken other lovers, and it did not seem to trouble him, but I could not believe he would be so sanguine. I knew he held me in esteem._

_I begged off two invitations to dine with them over the following week, though by that point I sometimes felt I was at their home more than my own. At last, I knew I could not deny another request, so I arrived at the house, later than I normally would have so as to avoid our usual pre dining conversations._

_Thomas was not there. It was only Miranda and their two servants. He had to work late, she said. He would not be home until at least ten._

_We ate, and I said little. I knew what I was going to do. Even as I knew I would try to refuse her, I knew it was a lie. And so it was._

_She led me to their bedroom, and at that I balked. It is one thing to lay with a man’s wife, and another entirely to do it in the man’s bed. She took me by the hand, and said, “He does not care.” God help me, that was all it took. She said it three times and I went as willingly as a lamb to the slaughter._

_I confess, I thought of him as we were together. I thought of her, of course I did, it was her and I together, but I could not help but think to myself, this is where he lays with her. These are the sheets on which they are together. Is this how he holds her? Is this what he does? I hated myself for it, for what I was doing._

_When we completed, I dressed quickly, and she did not at all. I said I would show myself out, and she just smiled at me in a way I could not understand. Like she saw right through me. I hated her a little, I admit. I blamed her and I blamed myself for what we had done. We had betrayed Thomas, and in his own bed, no less._

_I closed the door after me, and came to the bottom of the staircase when I heard Thomas say my name. If the floor had opened before me and I had fallen directly into the pits of hell, I believe I would have preferred that in the moment. He was standing in the door of his office, which was not so far away. He beckoned for me to join him, and disappeared inside._

_I had no choice. I followed, red with shame. I smelled of her, for God’s sake. There he was, going through papers on his desk, wig discarded, calm as always. I could count on one hand the number of times I heard him raise his voice, and this was not one of those occasions. I remarked that I had been told he would be home late, and he pointed out that it was in fact after ten. _

_At that point, I began to stammer out an apology. The only words I could say were, “Thomas, I’m sorry.” What else could I possibly say to him? How could I ever undo the damage I had wrought?_

_He turned to me then, a look of confusion about his brow. To my everlasting surprise, he let out a small laugh, and came to me._

_“Miranda and I have no secrets from one another,” he said in that gentle way of his. “I daresay I knew her intentions towards you long before you did.” I could not believe he was not cross with me. I could not dare to believe it. He looked at me with his usual affection. “We love one another—we do not limit one another.” He then took my arm in his hand, and spoke lower, as if to convince me of some secret. “You and I are still friends. How could we not be?”_

_My relief was so great that I could not speak. He smiled at me, then asked if I had the time to look at some papers he was preparing. I said of course, and when I stepped further into the office, he patted my back. I still remember that, fifteen years later._

_After that, my guilt over our affair lessened, and eventually disappeared. In my second life, my life in the navy, I always needed to ask permission. He was the only man whose permission absolved me._

_Miranda and I continued, and I think of those few weeks where it was only she and I. Her laugh, and her boldness. How happy I was. How happy I believe she was as well. We would couple, and sometimes, if Thomas was not home, we would lay in bed and talk, and she would tell me wicked stories, and I would laugh. She could always make me laugh._

_It is in such stark opposition to how we were once he was gone. The first time we lay together in Nassau, she wept so deeply that we had to stop. I held her, and did not join her, though afterwards I retreated outside that cabin and shed tears myself, the first I had done since leaving England._

_After that, I would not say we sought pleasure in one another’s bodies. We would come together, and it always felt so terribly bleak. It was not even as if we attempted to recapture what we had for those few weeks when it was only she and I. It was as though we did a thing merely because we knew we ought to. The last time we went to bed, I lay under her and did absolutely nothing, and what joy she took from me was grim and short lived. I think these encounters only happened because it was the closest we could come to him. Perhaps for seconds we could forget. Only I never forgot. Not for a moment._

_I do her another disservice. It is her birthday, and I am thinking of him. I hope she would not begrudge me that. She loved him far more than she ever loved me, and her devotion lay with him, even at the end. I did love her. I love her still, and always will. The truth, and she knew this, is that I loved her in part because she was the only one who loved him as much as I._

_I miss her. Today, I miss her terribly._

_January 4, 1720_

_Having dinner with the Frasers this evening. The weather has gotten worse, and snowed without stopping yesterday. The wind was a shrieking thing. Found it a bit of a comfort, actually. Unsure why._

_January 5, 1720_

_Just returned home after spending the evening and much of the day in town. The weather was so fierce that the Frasers insisted I remain with them overnight. When they have offered in the past, I declined, but the blizzard was such that this time I acquiesced. Their stable easily accommodated Marcus, and they had a small bed that did not quite fit me but was warm._

_In the morning, there was a foot of new snow outdoors, and the children were playing in it quite happily. I had breakfast with the Frasers, then went to spend some time with Mr. Walters. He knows far more about carpentry than I do, and I intend to learn as much as possible so that in spring I might better outfit the house. If I am here for several years, the house will need more attention than my skills are currently capable of covering. He is fine to teach me, and asks few questions._

_I took him to lunch at the tavern, and I actually made the other men laugh today. I do not take part in their jests. That is, I smile when it is appropriate or when the mood strikes me, but I do not make merry. However, they were talking about women, as they are wont to do, and somehow got onto the topic of their clothes. Mr. Ryder started telling a clearly false tale about a highborn woman he bedded in his youth, and he was talking about undressing her, and he said, phonetically if I may, ‘mant-wah.’_

_It is not my nature to interject, but for some reason, I said, “It’s mantua, you damned fool.”_

_Everyone looked at me in surprise, then began to laugh at both me and him. He was embarrassed, and asked what I knew about it._

_I replied, “I’ve actually touched one, unlike yourself.”_

_At that, the men laughed greatly. More than they had at anything else today, and Mr. Walters even clapped me on the back several times. I think the exaggeration of their reaction had something to do with my never participating. I hope I have not made a foe of Ryder. I have accrued enough enemies for a lifetime._

_Saw Wake briefly. A traveller, coming with goods to sell, arrived in town a few days previous and has fallen ill while staying at the tavern. Wake came in to see him, and bid us hello. He declined the invitation to join us. Mr. Walters asked him if he knew what a mantua is, and Wake answered, “How on earth do you know what one is?” The men laughed at that, and he left us. _

_The road east is entirely covered in snow. Marcus seems completely accustomed to the large snowfalls. Tomorrow I shall take him for a long ride. It will do us both good to take a journey._

_January 6, 1720_

_Since yesterday, I find a loop going around my mind, of articles of clothing. I am reminded of the day in her study, when she teased me of how little I knew, and named every single thing she wore as she removed them._

_Shoes. Stockings. Stomacher. Mantua. Shift. Rings. Necklace. Earrings. Pins. Letting her dark hair loose. I remember how it began to grey almost as soon as we reached Nassau._

_She was still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen._


	10. The Ride

It is late, and the candle burns low. However, James has gotten into the habit of writing at least a sentence a day. Some record of his time here. He has little to show for his previous lives, save some coin and scars.

            It is foolish to keep the journal. If it is found, it will be enough to see him hung ten times over. Only he feels that with each word he writes, he somehow makes the past a little more solid, and the present a touch more real. If it is worth putting to paper, it is worth remembering.

            Holding back a yawn, he turns to a new page, and draws out lines and swirls with his quill.

 

_January 11, 1720_

_I have thought little of the_ Walrus _these past few weeks. The monster thinks this is a weakness, a betrayal. The man that came before is relieved for it. Whoever or whatever I am, I find that I do not really care where they have found themselves._

_The East? I presumed that was where they meant to sail. Between the Spanish and the English, the Indies will soon be no place for pirates at all. This is a fact, a lesson hard won despite all my stubbornness. It is too small an area to support so many entrepreneurs of my former ilk._

_East. Africa, perhaps. India. Best of luck to the clueless bastards trying to deal in a completely unknown land. I think DeGroot is the only one who has travelled there before. Maybe Joji, but God only knows._

_I will confess a small smile at thinking of how terribly Silver may have failed by now. His lack of experience will have been fully on display this past year. It is most likely that he has been replaced as captain by now, if not several times. For all I know, the ship may have sunk. Would serve the traitors right._

_But those are the bitter thoughts of a man who lost a battle he did not realize was being waged until it was already over. Strange—I thought I was fighting a war against the whole of England. Turned out the only war I had any chance of winning was command of my own ship, and that was a thing I threw away by not heeding the many warnings cast my way, even by my usurper._

_My ship. No idea where she has gone, what she may be doing, or even whose hands she is in._

_Perhaps I shall ponder on it another day. It will not be tonight._

 

            He closes the inkwell, and wipes the end of the quill. Holding it to his eyes, he sees it has dulled. He takes a knife, and sharpens the tip ever so slightly. Work that would be better done in the daylight, but his eyesight has not faltered over the years.

            Setting his things down, James blows out the candle, then strips off his clothes. He folds them, same as always, and walks to the hearth. Adding another log, he pokes at the fire until it begins to rise once more. The house is cool, but not terribly.

            On the ship, he would just sleep in his clothes. But even after all these months in New Hampshire, he finds the clothing here confining. Better to sleep in nothing. He has a fur blanket that he bought for what seemed an exorbitant price at the time, but for which he is deeply grateful now that winter has set in so securely.

            He slips beneath it with a sigh. He finds that he does that these days. Sighs as he lies down. Is it age? Perhaps. His head upon the pillow, James looks over his small home. A few books, a table, a single chair. It is not much, but he realizes that he feels calm here.

            What a thing. To be calm.

            He closes his eyes against the soft light, listening to the fire’s gentle crackle.

 

When he bolts upright, the house is dark.

            His heart thumps. Why has he woken? It is the middle of the night. He has woken for a reason, he is sure of it.

            The pounding at the door draws his eyes, and James leaps out of bed, scrambling for his breeches in the dark. He pulls them on, calling out cautiously, “Who is it?”

            The reply is there, but not loud enough for him to parse.

            Pants on, James goes to grab his cutlass, hollering, “I asked who is there!”

            This time, he gets an audible answer. “Ezra—it’s Ezra Wake!”

            Shoulders slumping, James thinks, _of course it is_. Then he thinks, _what was it you said about calm_? He considers still going to get his sword, but realizes it would be a moot point. If Wake wanted to kill him, he likely would have just slithered under the door and slit his throat while James slept.

            James grabs the fur blanket off his bed instead, wrapping it around his shoulders. Walking to the door, he unlatches it, then opens it. The wind makes itself a quick guest, and he grimaces. “What is the hour?”

            Wake stands nearly ten feet away. He wears a cloak, the hood up. There is a waxing moon out among the clouds, and by looking at its placement, James can already tell the answer to his question.

            Wake rasps, “A little past five.” He reaches up, pushing back the hood. Even in the dim light, there is no missing the obvious. He is ill. He looks up James with sunken eyes, and James can see that he wavers on his feet. “I have come to collect on the second of your debts.”

            James says nothing.

            Lowering his head a moment, as if it pains him to speak, Wake says slowly, “A man…came to the village. He was ill, and—the sickness, I knew it not. I do not know…how it moves. If it is by breath or air or touch and so I will come no closer. I treated him to the best of my abilities, and in the interim I…came into contact with Rebecca Smithe. The…the little girl with the…ice skates. Now she is ill, and I am ill, and he is dead. I believe I passed…this sickness to her. And I’ve no way of…stopping her sickness.”

            Wake nods towards the porch, and James looks down. There is a small pouch there.

            “There is a woman in Siddeston. Martha Richards. She is…more knowledgeable than I. If any can save the child, if there is any remedy, she will know it. You have the fastest horse in this town. I need you to take that to her, and return with whatever she gives you. She won’t ask for money. She will put you up for the night. But I need you to leave, now, and return as quickly as you are able. I cannot emphasize the importance of speed in this matter.” Wake gestures to himself. “I would…make the journey myself, but my horse is not meant for such haste. Nor do I believe I will live to make the return journey. This is what I need of you.”

            James does not speak for a moment. When he does, he says, “It seems a steep request for a single tooth.”

            Wake drops his head. “God—“ For the first time, James can hear genuine anger in his voice. “ _Damn_ you, Flint. A better name no man ever had.” With a hiss, Wake says, “Do this, and our accounts are settled. No debts. But—only if she lives. You go, now, and you come back here, as if the devil himself is on your tail. Don’t come to me, you go straight to her with whatever remedy Martha has given you. Rebecca and her mother stay with Robert O’Donnell, out back of the tavern.”

            “I know.”

            Pointing at the pouch, Wake says, “I’ve only touched it with gloved hands, and I suggest you do the same. You’re no use to any of us if you catch sick as well.” He puts his hood back up, and turns away. He does not walk towards the road, but the forest. “Remember—your account is settled only if she lives. If she doesn’t—so help me, Flint, I will _haunt_ you until your dying breath.”

            James stands a moment, watching Wake disappearing into the woods. Then he throws off his blanket. It is a two day journey for most to Siddeston.

            He will have to do better.

 

By the time the sun rises, he has been on the road for several hours. He has always been good at leaving a place with little notice. It took him all of twenty minutes to prepare for his journey.

            Of course, James has never attempted a journey such as this in the winter before, but there is always a first for everything.

            He stretches downwards, to cut the wind resistance, and kicks into Marcus’ flanks. It is the first time he has ever had to encourage the animal to quicken. The beast is already moving with incredible speed over the snow, and it is a dangerous thing they do, but he does not intend to spend the night in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter.

            He wears his old clothes, bundled in his fur blanket. He has enough food for the two of them for a two day trip, and that is all. They travel lightly to reduce weight.

            They will succeed in this.

 

At last, he can tell that Marcus can and will go no further. So he pulls up the reins, slowing the animal.

            “Good,” he says. “Steady.”

            Under him, the horse pants and whinnies frantically. James pats his neck a few times, then jumps off the saddle. He sinks into the snow up to his ankles. Still better than the road near to his house, where it reaches towards his knees in spots.

            Letting Marcus rest, James looks about himself. He does not know the road well enough to situate himself. The sky above is grey and bright. Worrisome. It feels like more snow might come. Last bloody thing he needs.

            He wipes the sweat from his head with the back of his sleeve. In the cold, he can feel that his damp hair has begun to freeze. Still, the weather could be far worse.

            _The Thames would not freeze_.

            He has thought of little the past few hours. He is doing this to be free from any obligation to Ezra Wake. He has slight interest in whether the child in question lives or dies.

            It is Miranda’s voice that whispers from the back of his mind. _Don’t say that._

            Grimacing, he feels along his numb body until he finds his pocket. Withdrawing the pouch, he looks at it with curiosity. There was no instruction not to look inside, only to not touch it ungloved. James is wearing gloves.

            So he opens it, and upends the contents into his hand. The contents are a small rock, and a little scroll. James unrolls it. He sighs. Of course. He cannot read a word. It is in some language that he is unfamiliar with. He does not even recognize the letters.

            Replacing the contents, James puts the pouch back in his pocket. Stripping off a glove, he goes to the roadside, where the snow is completely untouched, and dips a hand into it. He lifts snow to his mouth with red fingers, and chews it, watching the sky.

            He will certainly need Miranda’s voice for this endeavour.

 

The day continues, and becomes afternoon, and then begins to darken into evening.

            James has never ridden so long and hard in such cold weather before. The fact of the matter is, he has never ridden much at all.

            He can handle a horse just fine, of course he can. But he was born and raised in London, the son of a carpenter. What reason would he have to ride a horse? The first time he was even atop one was the frost fair of ’84. The one Wake spoke of the other week.

            All of London had frozen over. The cold was worse than this, almost unbearably so. His mother was long dead by then, and his father had gone a few months earlier. He lived with an uncle, who said little with his mouth but plenty with his fists. James was apprenticing under him. Carpentry. Just like his father. He loathed it. He could not wait to be free.

            Then the winter came, and it was the worst that anyone could remember. James and Franklin, his cousin, would huddle together every night, breathing frost on every exhale. His uncle was so useless that they could not afford a fire, and they were a family that worked with wood. “Like this, Jimmy,” Franklin would say, putting his hands under his armpits, and then he would pull James into his lap, wrapping him up in his much longer arms. They all ran tall in the family, and even though James was large for his age, he still fit in Franklin’s lap. They suffered through the nights together, too miserable to say anything and neither of them willing to state the obvious: one morning, one of them might not wake up.

            When the Thames froze, no one was shocked. The depth that it did was the genuine surprise. A full foot, said some. Eighteen inches, said others. James thought it was a terrible portent. If the great river could freeze to such an extent, what chance did a skinny orphan have of surviving the winter intact?

            Except Franklin told him about the frost fair. It sounded ridiculous. James was so exhausted that he begged off every time that Franklin wanted to go. Finally, his cousin threatened to put him over his shoulders.

            So out they went, and it was _wonderful_. It was one of the only truly happy moments of his childhood. Probably the first time he had been happy since his father’s death. For a whole day, they just ran about the frozen surface of the river, from tent to tent, enamoured of the sights and smells and the pure joyous atmosphere of the thing. They had no money to spend on anything, but that mattered little. It cost nothing to watch. Well, for most of it. When it did, they snuck their way in.

            James forgot the cold, forgot the last few months, and had fun. He was a serious child, always had been, but that day he acted like he had no cares in the world.

            Then there was the horse. A man was pulling a boat with two Shetlands that seemed utterly massive to James, bells on them and their manes falling over their eyes. He called out to James and Franklin, asking if they wanted to ride. Franklin said no, that they had no money, then pushed James and told the man, “He’s never even been on a horse, sir.”

            James glared at him, embarrassed. But then the man, with his rosy cheeks and curly beard, motioned James over. James hesitated, but the man cajoled, “C’mon then!” When James went to him, the man put his hands down, weaving his fingers into a make-shift stirrup. The only words of advice that James got was, “Hold on and don’t worry yourself—he’s plenty gentle.” James stepped onto his hand and got hoisted up.

            It was bizarre—if the horse had looked big from the ground, it seemed even more so under him. More than that, though—the horse was _warm_. It was the warmest thing James had touched in months. He leaned forward, putting his fingers into the horse’s mane.

            All of a sudden, it was moving under him. The man had gotten into the boat, and with a little flip of the whip, they were moving.

            James, purely on instinct, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the animal’s neck. He did not think about how he had seen people ride horses. Arms and legs wrapped around the thing, he soaked in the amazing warmth of the animal, as purely content as he could ever remember being.

            He did not care afterwards about how Franklin teased him for it. It had been perfect.

            It was not until he joined the navy that he actually learned how to ride a horse. Even then, it was a formality more than anything—every man needed to know how to ride a horse, even if he intended on spending the rest of his life at sea. When he did get on a horse, it was to cover short distances.

            This—here and now—is the fastest and longest he has ever travelled by such a creature.

            “Quickly,” he whispers into Marcus’ ear.

 

They are both flagging, and James cannot say he blames his companion. Marcus has given him more today than most humans ever have. James encourages him onwards through the dark, promising whatever he likes. Hay. A warm stable. An attractive mare.

            James is nothing but aches from the waist down. His cock feels like it has been mashed repeatedly by malicious parties. All he wants is to slide off into the snow and lay on his back.

            Wake, he can go fuck himself. Debts. Accounts. Odds are the man will be dead by the time he gets back. The child too. There is no reason for James to push himself and his horse forward so relentlessly.

            But he does. His true motivations are hidden, even from himself.

            When he sees the first light in the distance, it is so out of place after all these hours in the dark that he is actually shocked by it. James feels his face spread into a grin, and he claps Marcus on the neck. “There we are. Come on now—a little further.” He kicks into Marcus’ flanks, and with a deeply unhappy shriek, Marcus gives him one last burst of speed.

            One light turns into two, and three, and then a town at the bottom of a shallow valley. They have made the journey in a day, half the time it takes most in fair weather.

            James did not doubt it could be done.

           

He has to pound on a few doors before he gets where he needs to be.

            Dragging Marcus by the reins, the horse wheezing, James limps up to the cottage. He has no idea how he is going to get back on the animal tomorrow. Right now he can hardly walk.

            Once they reach the porch, James turns to Marcus. The horse’s head hangs, puffing out clouds of breath. James falls against him lightly, and presses his face to the horse’s mane. “Good. Thank you, my friend. Thank you.”

            He ties the horse to the porch railing, then awkwardly climbs the steps. _Just imagine the journey home_. He cannot. Not right now.

            Lifting his fist, he bangs it on the door of the dark home a few times. He gives it a few seconds, bracing himself against the doorway, before he starts to beat on it again.

            A voice comes from inside. Elderly, and unimpressed. “Who’s there?”

            “My name’s James Moore. Ezra Wake sent me.”

            After a few seconds, he hears the door unlatch. An old woman peers up at him. She is in her night clothes, grey hair braided.

            She takes one look at him, then says, “And?”

            James pulls the pouch from his pocket. “He’s ill. He bade me give this to you but said not to touch it ungloved—“ She plucks it from his hand, turning away. Shaking his head, James says, “Or do. Whatever pleases you.”

            The old woman moves about, lighting candles. James peers inside. It looks much like Wake’s shop in The Edge, though less organized. Herbs hang from the ceiling, bottles cover the shelves.

            “I’m to assume you are Martha Richards?”

            “You can assume all you please.” She glances at him. “Why are you standing there? Come in, close the door.”

            James does not have to be told twice. He finds a chair, and slumps down on it. The act is simultaneously an incredible relief and a stark reminder of how badly his lower half has been pummeled.

            Richards withdraws the scroll, taking out a magnifying glass. She leans over it, and silently reads back and forth. There is something off about the way she does it, but James is too tired to care. He sits with legs splayed, eyes at half-mast.

            When she finishes, she straightens with a sigh. She is a tiny woman, maybe in her seventies. “No good at all,” she says. Dropping the glass on the table, Richards turns to James. “Mr. Moore, then?”

            “Indeed.”

            “My daughter lives next door. Go wake her husband and ask them both to come over. Then we’ll get you into a bed. Does that sound agreeable enough?”

            James nods, and gets to his feet.

            “How bad is he?” asks Richards, and James looks back. Any concern on her face is carefully hidden. “How ill is he really?”

            “He believes he is dying,” James says simply.

            With a frown, Richards says, “Go. We haven’t much time.”

 

A gentle hand on his shoulder wakes him. Before he can grab it, a soft voice murmurs, “It’s only me, Mr. Moore. Time to get up.”

            He blinks, looking up at the blond woman leaning over him. She holds a candle, waiting to see if he will rise. “Already?” he asks, closing his eyes briefly.

            “I am afraid so.” She touches his arm and he opens his eyes. “I’ve clothes for you here, and then you’ll come have some food. Mother wants to speak to you.” She leaves the candle, but closes the door after herself.

            With a groan, James rolls upwards. He sits upright, taking a couple of breaths.

            The pain has dissipated. Before he went to sleep, Richards gave him an ointment and told him, “Just put it wherever it hurts.” Now, James sheds his night clothes, and reapplies it. Almost immediately, his skin begins to cool, and there is a soothing sensation over his nethers and down his bruised inner thighs.

            He puts on the clothes that have been left for him. Long pants that are ragged but warm, a linen shirt and a knit one to go over it. He does not know where his clothes have gone. Too tired to be a considerate guest, he leaves the room without doing a thing save blowing out the candle.

            It is still dark. Richards and the Hendersons are seated at the table. A bag is on it, along with a large plate of porridge. “Sit,” Richards commands.

            James does so and gratefully begins to eat. He ate before falling asleep, but cannot remember what he consumed. He is ravenous.

            Richards has changed into a simple dress, her eyes bleary with exhaustion. “What he needs is in the bag. The smaller vial, that goes to the girl. I’ve written him a letter, telling him what to do if this happens again. We shall work on the assumption that he is either too ill to attend to her or he’s already dead. In that case, you’ll be the one in charge of carrying out these instructions. The child, she has to drink the entire thing. All at once. Give her plenty to drink. And whatever she is wearing, whatever bedsheets she has been on, burn them all. Not in the house. Out back, burn the lot. Anything she wore since she touched Ezra when he was sick. The sickness should spread no further. It is an anomaly, making it to such a small town. The traveller brought it with him. If we are lucky, he will be the only one who dies. If not, so long as the belongings are burned, the illness should not spread. Are you listening, Mr. Moore?”

            He nods, and says through a mouthful of porridge, “Small bottle. Child. All at once. Burn what she wore.”

            “Good. The second bottle is for Ezra. I would tell you to take it to him first and forget the child, since he’s worth more than she is, but I doubt he’d forgive me for it if she died. I would not want to make an enemy of him.”

            “Wise,” James says.

            “You’ll have to leave your horse,” says Mr. Henderson.

            At that, James goes still. “What did you say?”

            Henderson is a large man with a scar across his forehead. He crosses his arms on the table and says, “You near killed him yesterday. He can barely walk. You’ll take Samson. He’s my fastest. I’ll do what I can to patch up your animal, but after what you put him through yesterday, I cannot promise anything.”

            Defensively, James says, “I was told to make speed—“

            “And you did,” Richards says. “You did well. Michael will see to your horse. He will do what he can.”

            James is strangely reticent. All of a sudden, he does not want to go anywhere. “Will he…be all right?”

            Mr. Henderson shrugs. “Do my best. Imagine you’ll put Samson through the same grief, so I won’t expect we’ll see you back here any time soon. Bring Samson back when he’s able, trade them out. Just don’t kill my bloody horse.”

            “Michael,” Richards murmurs, and her son-in-law quiets. She turns back to James. “Travel as fast as you are able. Go to the girl, and then go to Ezra.”

            “That wasn’t part of my deal with him,” James says.

            “I don’t care,” Richards replies. “It’s part of your deal with me.”

            Eyeing her, James asks, “And why should you and I have an accord?”

            Unworried, Richards leans closer to him. She looks him in the eyes, and tilts her head.

            “A man walked out of the water one night, Mr. Moore. Has he gone back in yet?”

            James starts, sitting back.

            Richards grins, and for the first time he sees her missing tooth. “Finish your food. You have a lot of miles to cover.”

 

Marcus is in terrible shape, and James curses himself for it. The horse gives a soft whinny at the sight of him, coming to the edge of the pen with shaky legs. James rubs his hands over Marcus’ neck, and murmurs, “I am sorry, my friend.” He feels the animal tremble.

            _Curse Wake_.

            Samson is a massive thing, about eighteen hands and pure black. James’ saddle is already on him. When he climbs on, there is a moment of dissonance at being so high, and his legs start to ache at the prospect of another day’s journey.

            He listens tiredly to the instructions Mr. Henderson gives him regarding the horse, wrapping his blanket closely about himself. It is still pitch dark, the sky clouded over. James has no idea what time it is, and has not asked.

            Richards steps forward, and grips his leg in her bony hand. “Kol tuv,” she says, then smacks the horse on the rear. It rears up, startling James, then they pitch forward as the horse bolts, as though it were bred purely to run.

            James puts his head down, holding tight. He can do this. He must.

            _Yes_ , a soft voice murmurs to him, _you must_.

            The image of a little girl, blonde and fair, screaming at the sight of him, flashes through his mind. Grimacing, he flattens himself against the horse’s back, racing into the night.


	11. A Certain Samaritan

It is another long, terrible day. For a brief spell, he falls asleep in the saddle. When he wakes with a gasp, he takes his anger with himself out on the horse, kicking into his sides. The animal screams, then tears forward.

            The only tracks in the snow are those he made yesterday. For miles and miles and miles, it is the only evidence of life in the woods. Occasionally a bird will call from the woods, but he is racing so quickly through the cold that he does not hear it.

            His exhaustion-addled brain wonders if Richards is a witch. She looks like one. Acts like one. James does not believe in such things. He has seen too much to believe those stories. Only she knew about Mr. Flint coming out of the ocean.

            _She saw your pants, you fool. Stained with salt. Everything about you says sailor_.    

            He rides.

 

The day brightens, though the clouds do not break. It brightens, and then dims.

            And then it darkens.

            Once more, he rides in the night. He took one brief rest at mid-day, but did not get off the horse, for fear of falling asleep in the snow. He has no idea how he is still upright. When he is invested, he can do great and horrible things, yes, but this is not his quest. He is doing this merely to clear himself of a troublesome burden.

            So why does he ride so hard?

            Every time he pictures the girl on Nassau, he brushes her aside angrily. She has no place here. There are only so many debts he can settle.

            Being a monster is not one.

           

At long last, his surroundings become familiar, even in the dark. Samson, though admittedly an extremely capable creature, has slowed considerably. James urges him onwards.

            They gallop past the road to his home, then the road to Wake’s. James rides towards town, the sun down for at least four or five hours at this point.

            His relief upon seeing the buildings of The Edge is palpable. He lets Samson slow, guiding him to the small home behind the tavern.

            Finally, he stops.

            _I did it._

_Not yet you haven’t._

            James practically falls off the horse. His blanket drops to the ground. He picks it up, and throws it over the animal’s back.

            The back door of the tavern is thrown open. “Did you get help?” Tess asks, dressed in her night clothes. “Christ almighty—you’ve been so fast—did you get help?”

            James gestures to the horse. “Stable him. I have to—medicine.”

            He staggers towards the little house. Candle light radiates from it. He drags himself up the steps, but before he can touch the door, it too is thrown open.

            Robert O’Donnell, Tess’ son, stands in the doorway, practically filling it. He has his mother’s red hair, but none of the distrust around the eyes.

            “Mr. Moore,” he says in relief. “God be praised.”

            He puts his hand behind James’ back, ushering him forwards. James is so drained that he lets himself be moved about. “Where is the girl?” he asks, eyes unfocused.

            “In the back. I haven’t gone in. Milly told me not to—in case it is spreading.”

            James moves past him. He does not bother knocking on the door, merely pushes through it. He pauses at the scene before him.

            The mother sits at the bedside. She looks up at him with her one good eye, her distress and heartbreak evident on every inch of her. The candles illuminate the child. She is unconscious, breathing shallowly. She is covered in red spots that look exactly like flea bites. He can smell her from across the room.

            James knows exactly what this is.

            “Please,” begs the woman.

            James unshoulders the bag, and opens it. He finds the small bottle. “She needs to drink all of this,” he says. “All at once.” Milly reaches for it, but her hands are shaking. James holds it out of her reach, and sighs. “Wake her. I’ll do it.”

            He pulls off his cloak, looking around the tiny room. There is very little in it, as sparse as his own accommodations. He doubts they have more than the one set of sheets, or the one set of clothes. That is too bad. They must be consigned to the fire.

            Milly is gently shaking the girl’s shoulders. “Becca. My darling. My darling. Wake up.” She starts to cry. “Please. Please, wake up.”

            James unstops the bottle, and he would grimace at the smell of the liquid inside, but the odour of the girl is already terrible. Stepping over to the bed, he says, “I apologize.” Then he roars, “WAKE UP!”

            Milly falls back, covering herself in fear. The child, however, gasps into consciousness. Her eyes are wide but unfocused. “Mother?”

            James does not want to touch her, but Milly is cowering, too frightened of him to even come near the girl. So he says, “I’ve your medicine. Time to drink.”

            He puts a hand beneath her small, fragile head, lifting it. It is not until he does that—until he touches her—that he realizes he is afraid. Not for himself. No. Not for himself at all.

            Ignoring all that, James puts the bottle to her lips, tilting it back. The girl takes a sip and makes a face. “All the way,” he coaxes. “Until you are better.” The girl is obliging, and swallows until every drop in the bottle is gone.

            He lets her head down, and she smiles up at him. Smiles. When was the last time a child smiled at him?

            He smiles back, knowing his mouth has an unfortunate habit of forming a smirk. But it is all he has to offer.

            The girl closes her eyes, murmuring, “It’s too warm, Mother.”

            Milly is still hiding behind her hands. James crouches down by her, but she shies away. Frowning, he looks to the doorway, where Robert stands. He shakes his head, letting James know that he will get no further.

            Getting to his feet, he walks over to Robert. “All the sheets, everything she’s worn, it has to be burned. Not thrown out back, not washed, but burned. Immediately. If your mother has anything from the traveller, the same should be done to his possessions. They have to be destroyed, at once.”

            “Yes sir.”

            “Where’s Wake?”

            Robert looks pained. “He’s sick, sir. Hasn’t left his house. Locked himself in so he doesn’t pass the sickness along.” James sighs, shaking his head. “Mr. Fraser went to look in on him yesterday. Mr. Wake wouldn’t let him in.”

            Wake will have to wait. Maybe James will get lucky and the man will die in the night. In the meantime, they have to see to the girl.

            “Get your mother,” James instructs. “We need to start a fire.”

 

He walks through the snow with aching legs, bag over his shoulder under his blanket, a hatchet in his hand.

            The sun is just coming up. He fell asleep on the floor of Robert’s house after they burned the clothes and blankets. All he wanted was to sleep into the next week. The last thing on his list before achieving that was to get someone to take the bag to Wake.

            Only everyone he asked refused.

            “He’s quarantined himself, sir,” Robert had said. “We can’t go in there.”

            James could barely believe his ears. Here he thought the whole town bloody loved the man so much, and he could not get a single soul to take him the medicine that could save his life.

            “You don’t understand,” Tess said. “We care for him enough to respect his wishes. If he thinks he could make the rest of us sick, and he’s chosen to lock himself up in there, we won’t disobey him.”

            “Cowards,” James had spat out.

            So he caught a total of maybe four hours sleep before setting out on foot towards Wake’s.

            He has no idea why he is doing this. It would be better to let the man die. Wake and Tess know who he is. He suspects that Wake knows more than Tess. If there is a single man in this village that James should just let die, it is Ezra Wake, without question. The man is dangerous and duplicitous and obnoxious. Better to let him rot.

            There is, however, one small problem.

            James may or may not be Flint. He may or may not be McGraw. Moore, who the hell knows. One thing remains, however.

            _Never value anything as profitable to thyself which shall compel thee to break thy promise, to lose thy self-respect, to hate any man, to suspect, to curse, to act the hypocrite._

Ezra Wake saved his life. Who knows why, what his code is that Tess referred to. He killed four men without batting an eyelash, all to save James from a noose. Without James ever saying, _I owe you_ , he knows that he does. He is not so far gone that he can brush aside a man endangering himself so severely to protect James that he could just walk away. Wake needs help.

            And maybe they said that their accounts were settled if the girl lives. Words are one things. Actions another. It certainly does not feel like James has repaid his debt.

            He comes upon the corner, and gazes upon the house. There is no noise. He has heard that the dogs were both placed in the apothecary with instructions for them to be fed twice daily, and the horse was left with the Frasers.

            There is a page tacked to the front door. Approaching it, James reads what it says.

 

_Do not enter this house until January 26 th, in which case I will be long dead and the disease will have hopefully dissipated. Please inter my remains in the cemetery with all haste, but without words spoken by the parson. I request that Black Shuck go to Mr. Fredericks, and that Cu Sith be entrusted to Millicent and Rebecca Smithe. If it would please Mrs. Walters, I would bequeath Kelpie to the school. She is even tempered and will be good with the children. My personal belongings will be of little interest to anyone, but those who wish to take mementoes are welcome to it, with my blessing. I ask only that any texts on my profession and any supplies for the application thereof be left for the next person of medicine or midwife to settle in our town. It has been my sincere privilege to serve you, and I thank you most heartily for the last four years. I am now, and will always be,_

_Ezra Wake_

 

            James rolls his eyes, and tries the door. Latched from the inside. He sets aside the hatchet, and tries his shoulder against the door. He will cut the thing to bits, if need be. James steps back, and puts his considerable strength into throwing himself against the door.

            He does so two more times, and on his third attempt he hears something splinter. Renewing his efforts, on his fourth attempt he breaks through.

            Almost immediately, he can smell it. The house is hung with many different herbs, but underneath it all is the stench of something awful. The malodorous specter of death. If Wake is not already dead, he is damned close.

            James pushes the door closed behind himself. Wake is not downstairs. Eyeing the stairs, James first shrugs off the blanket, then places it and his cloak by the door. “Wake,” he calls. “Still alive?”

            There is no response. With a grim sigh, James makes for the stairs.

            When he reaches them, the smell gets worse. It is akin to being breathed on by a whore who has not bothered to rinse out her mouth in thirty years. Grimacing, James makes his way up the stairs, the scent getting incrementally worse with each step.

            Upon reaching the attic, he stills and takes in the surroundings. There is a wide bed, and books are scattered haphazardly all about the floor. It is cold, and James can tell that Wake is still alive because each breath he exhales is visible. But he is stripped down to the waist, scars and red dots visible. Where the rash does not cover, his pallor is grey. He holds his hands strangely, almost as if in prayer, his left hand wrapped around the thumb of the right. Staring vacantly at the ceiling, he shivers out a breath every few seconds.

            _He’s gone_ , James tells himself. _And you’ve already put yourself in harm’s way, being near the girl. No reason for you to stay_.

            He steps back, and the wood creaks.

            Wake’s chin lifts an inch. “Henry?” he whispers.

            _Smooth exit._ James holds still, watching to see if Wake will do anything.

            After a moment, Wake repeats, “Henry? Is that you?” His eyes look around blearily, finding nothing. He is too ill to raise his head.

            And James has no idea what possesses him. To his dying day, one could ask what thought goes through his head, and he would have no answer. None whatsoever.

            He says, “Yes.”

            Wake lets out a small gasp, then starts to hiccup with laughter. “Henry,” he says gladly. “Henry.”

            Cautiously, James steps up into the attic. He finds a chair in the corner, and brings it closer to the bed. Not within reaching distance, but close enough that Wake could see him, were he to turn his head. “You know who I am?” he asks.

            “You’ve come for me. I was wrong. I was wrong and you were right. You smug bastard. I was wrong. You told me. And you’ve come for me. You’ve come for me because I’m going to die.”

            Watching him, James says, “No. You’re going to live.”

            At that, any joy disappears from Wake’s face. He starts to shake his head. “No,” he whispers. “No, don’t—“ His voice breaks. “Don’t say that. If you’re here, that means—you will not go again. You will not leave me alone again. You cannot leave me again.” His eyes well with tears as he starts to become frantic. “Don’t leave me again. You cannot leave me here, you can’t—“

            “Shh.”

            Wake rolls away from him, and James lifts a hand against the smell. He takes in the sight of Wake’s bare back as the man turns on his side to weep. The man has definitely been to sea. He wears stripes from the lash all over his back. Christ, does he ever.

            Any animosity James felt dissipates in the moment. Perhaps it will return. Likely it will return, if Wake lives. But right now, he sits with a dying, delusional man, who is quietly sobbing at the unbearable thought of living.

            “You do not know how alone I have been,” Wake chokes out. “I have been all alone here. There is no one else. I cannot bear to be alone. Please, Henry. Take me with you. If it’s hell we go to, I don’t care. Just don’t….” He stops speaking amidst sobs. “Don’t leave me alone. All I have are the memories. Please. _Please_.”

            James removes the bottle from the bag. “All right.” He uncorks the bottle. “I’ll take you with me.”

            Wake coughs, bony shoulders shuddering. “You will?”

            “Yes.”

            “You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

            Patience thinning, James says, “Come here.” When Wake does not move, he does not make it a request. “ _Now_.”

            Wake quivers for another moment, then falls onto his back with a groan. “My head. Fuck. My fucking head—“

            Just like James did for the girl, he puts a hand under Wake’s head and tilts it up. “Drink this.”

            “What is it?”

            Going out on a limb, James says, “Poison.”

            His hunch is confirmed when Wake leans his head forward for the bottle almost greedily. His cold hands go to James’, and he swallows every single drop without complaint.

            Wake falls back, hacking, his chest heaving up and down. He lapses into another language for a moment, one that James is unfamiliar with. His long fingers come up to his chest, shaking.

            James finds himself reaching down a hand, pushing Wake’s greasy hair back from his forehead. “You’ll be all right now.”

            Wake nods blindly. “I will be with you. I’ll be with my family. You’re my only family. We’ll be a family again.”

            “That’s right.”

            It is like Wake looks right through him. “They’re dead,” he says flatly. The tone in his voice sends James hurtling back over a decade. It is as strong a sense of déjà vu as he has ever experienced. The words Wake just said, the manner in which he said them—James once said the exact same. Lowering his voice, Wake nods beneath his hand. “Everyone that hurt you. I made them suffer. I…left them in pieces. All save….” He grins, deranged. “The magistrate. I broke him. I broke him for you, Henry.”

            With a little sigh, James pats his head. “I knew you would.”

            Wake’s face changes slightly. He narrows his eyes. “Sir—who are you?”

            James withdraws his hand, certain at least that in his condition Wake will be able to do little harm to him. “Do you remember me?”

            “I…I thought you were Henry. But you…you have red hair. That’s not right. No. That isn’t right at all.” Wake relaxes again. “Ah. I know you. I know you. Samael. Destroyer. Seducer. Archangel of death.”

            He falls back into that other language, the words coming from the back of his throat. His eyes roll back, and he begins shivering uncontrollably.

            James lets out a breath, then pushes himself up. “Well, if you’re going to hell, we might as well get you dressed for it.”

            He unbuttons his waistcoat, putting it over the back of the chair, then begins to roll up his sleeves. He has plenty of work to do.

 

When James wakes up, the sun is rising again. He sits, and rubs the insides of his thighs. When he took a piss yesterday, he discovered his legs were positively black with bruises. Not to mention his prick.

            _Give me a frigate any day_ , he thinks.

            Yesterday, he went about stripping Wake of all his clothes and sheets, and washed him down, cataloguing his scars. He has no tattoos, but enough scars from fights and lashings that he obviously spent years on a ship. That done, James put him down on clean sheets, in fresh clothes. Wake was barely conscious the entire time, babbling in that other language. Or maybe just in tongues, James honestly could not tell.

            He built a large fire out back, and burned the soiled things. He considered it a moment, then burned the clothes he wore as well. After all, in the last day he was in direct contact with two people who had the spotted fever. Best to err on the side of caution.

            Once inside again, he found the clothes that Wake had initially loaned him. They still fit fine, if a little looser than previously. He napped awhile, then checked on Wake, got some liquids into him. The man did not recognize him at all, swinging back and forth between calling him Henry and Samael, barely speaking in English. James let him be.

            Then he did exactly what he had wanted to for months. He searched the place.

            He went through the cupboards. He went through the drawers. He flipped through the books, discovering that they were of many different languages. English, Spanish, and Latin he recognized, though his Latin is nowhere near his Spanish. Some of them might be Portuguese, and a few look to be in that strange alphabet James had never seen before this incident.

            For all his searching, he found nothing. No mementoes that might indicate where Wake had been before this place, no souvenirs or clues.

            He looked the violin over. It seems to be in good condition, but James knows little about instruments.

            Finally, he fell asleep on the floor, and slept clear through the night.

            Now he rises to his feet with a groan. Rubbing his backside—which is fairly sore from his high speed journey through the New Hampshire mountains—James limps across the floor. He means to put together some breakfast, then see if Wake lives.

            His foot comes down on a board that wobbles.

            James looks down.

            _Oh for Christ’s sake. You do it yourself, and you didn’t think to check?_

He tells himself that he was tired yesterday, and it has been a long couple days. Crouching down, he works his fingers under the board, and works it upwards.

            He is rewarded, at last. Under the floorboards has been stowed a large leather journal, much like his own. Only this one is black, and it is four fifths full. James pulls it out, and gets to his feet. He goes to the desk, and has a seat. Feeling vindicated, he flips to the middle of the book.

            James laughs softly. He puts his head in his hands, and chuckles in the otherwise silent house.

            He flips through the pages to be sure. It is official. The entire thing has been written in that nonsense language. Wake, even unconscious and near death, has foiled him yet again.

 

He spends the day quite comfortably. He finds a book that collects many of Cicero’s letters, and settles into the soft, repeatedly patched-up chair closest to the fire.

            Every few hours, he checks in on Wake, who drifts in and out of consciousness, but has regained some colour. Every time James goes upstairs, he asks himself what in the hell he is doing.

            He tells himself why, but it seems a ridiculous answer, and he knows Wake will think it is too when the question is asked aloud.

            He eats Wake’s food, and falls asleep in the chair.

            In the middle of the night, he wakes to the man upstairs screaming. James leaps to his feet, and goes to investigate with a hastily lit candle. Is the man in his death throes?

            No. Only a nightmare. By the time James gets upstairs, Wake has settled. He mumbles in his sleep, but does not cry out again. James, who has woken himself up with his dreams, does not begrudge him this. He goes back downstairs and is asleep again in moments.

 

On the third day, belly full with preserves and deep into Cicero’s correspondence with Atticus, James hears a suspicious, “Hello?” from upstairs.

            Looking upwards, James replies, “Hello.”

            A few moments pass, then he hears the sound of feet setting down on the floor. They pad across the attic, then alight on the stairs. Holding carefully to the railing, Wake walks down far enough to see James sitting in one of his chairs. They do nothing a moment, merely looking at one another.

            Face betraying nothing, Wake says, “Mr. Moore. I confess—I am puzzled.”

            “As I thought you might be.”

            Carefully walking down the rest of the way, Wake pushes his hair from his forehead. “What day is it, sir?”

            “Monday.”

            “Monday,” Wake repeats softly. “And—how long have you been here?”

            “You can’t recall?”

            Wary, Wake answers, “No. I’m afraid I cannot.”

            “I’ve been here since Saturday.”

            Wake studies him, confused. He glances around the house, then says without malice, “I see you’ve searched the place thoroughly.”

            James thought he did quite a good job of covering his tracks, but he should know better. “When else was I going to get such an opportunity?”

            Wrapping his arms around himself, Wake frowns, as if searching for a memory. “Rebecca,” he says abruptly. “Does she live?”

            James nods. “She does. Robert came by yesterday to pass along the news, and to see to your health.”

            “What part of that sign on the door was unclear to any of you?”

            “He did not enter. I am the only one who did.”

            “And once more, I am—exceedingly puzzled, Mr. Moore.” Wake goes to get a glass of water, his movements slow and achy. He finds a piece of biscuit, and bites at it. Raising his brows, as if surprised to see it is still edible, he comes to join James in the other chair. “Am I…am I to understand that you cared for me in my illness, sir?” he asks, letting himself down carefully.

            “I did.”

            Wake looks at him without blinking. “I find that…hard to believe. To put it mildly.”

            “Ask anyone else in the vicinity. They were too scared to come near you.”

            “But not you. And I wonder why.”

            Hands on the book, James changes the subject. “You had to know what this was. Even I knew what it was, just from looking at the girl. From the smell.”

            Wake gives a single nod, but then shakes his head. “It made no sense. It made _no_ sense.”

            “It’s ship fever. I’ve seen it a dozen times. In England, they call it jail or gaol fever.”

            “ _Tabardillo_ in Spanish,” Wake takes over. “Yes, Mr. Moore. I am not a complete idiot.”

            “So why say that you could not help?”

            “Because I clearly couldn’t. I still don’t know if it was ship’s fever.” When James scoffs, Wake insists, “I _don’t_. You know what it’s like. It only ever appears in crowded areas. All my life, I have never heard of spotted fever appearing anywhere rural. Ships, prisons, cities, where people are in close quarters—that is where the disease lives. I’ve not even heard of a single case of it in the colonies. And that man—Tristone—he must have been sick for days before reaching here, but I fell ill within a day of reaching him, and so did Rebecca. I had—I had no answers. I could not risk carrying the disease to another. Not after Rebecca.”

            “She’s not yours, is she?”

            Wake rolls his eyes. “Mr. Moore, I’ve been here less than four years. I believe you may have noticed the child is somewhat older than that.”

            “Frigging the mother?”

            “No.”

            “Then why do you give a damn?”

            Wake lets out a sigh, looking at James with tired eyes. “This will make very little sense to you, sir. You’ve killed indiscriminately. Charles Town—innocent and wicked alike, and God only knows how many on the water. I’m not without my sins, but the one line I have never crossed or will, is I have never killed a child. I can live with everything else quite easily. That is one sin I will not touch.”

            “Well, aren’t you the saint.”

            “Fuck yourself, Moore,” Wake says easily, and has a sip of water. His rash has receded, almost to the point of disappearing. “Martha—did she say anything about anyone else falling ill?”

            “No.”

            “Well—let us hope that we have contained it here. That Tristone was the only fatality. I am not one for optimism, but I would like to think this is a fluke. I don’t particularly care to see spotted fever kill my neighbours. Bad enough when the pox came through last year.” Wake sets his cup down on a small table, and returns his gaze to James. “Back to your inexplicable kindness. Is this—you repaying me for October?”

            Shaking his head, James says, “Oh no. You and I had an agreement. Our accounts were to be cleared if the girl lives. I made it to Siddeston and back in two days. Nearly killed my horse to do it. She lived. So my debts to you were already paid.”

            Wake sits back, in his loose shirt and unbuttoned breeches, eyes narrowed. Then his gaze clears, and the corners of his mouth tilt upwards for the briefest of moments.

            “You wanted me in _your_ debt.” Once he says it, Wake actually shows teeth. He seems amused by the turn of events. “Well played, Mr. Moore. Exceedingly well played.”

            James tilts his head, acknowledging the compliment.

            Folding his hands, Wake says with a smile, “So what is it to be then? Will you tell me now what you desire, or shall I wait several months on the hook? Do you intend to teach me a lesson?”

            “No. I know precisely what I want.”

            “By all means, Mr. Moore. I am at your mercy.”

            _You’re a damned fool_ , James tells himself. “I want to know who the fuck you are. I want to know all of it.”

            Wake stares at him a long moment before blinking his dark eyes. “That’s it?” he says bluntly.

            “That’s it.”

            Mouth opening, Wake is speechless. That is a welcome change. He lets out a laugh, then shakes his head. “Are you insane? You could have been killed. Tending to me, you could have lost your life, and you did it to satisfy your _curiosity_?”

            When he says it aloud, it really does sound as bad as James thought it would.

            “Good lord, Flint, is it really that difficult for you to let someone have the upper hand?”

            “I have told you what I want.”

            Wake sits back, flummoxed. He spreads his hands, searching for the words.

            At last, he says, “Fine.”

            James sets aside his book and leans forward.

            “Good _Christ_ , not today. I’ve nearly died. In three days’ time—“

            “No—“

            “Yes,” Wake says, and the steel returns to his eyes. “That is non-negotiable. I will recover my strength before I tell you the story of my life. You may return here on Thursday evening, at six, if that please you.”

            “What, give you time to remember which lies to tell?”

            With a shake of the head, Wake replies, “I am a man of my word. I will tell you whatever you wish to hear. Only I am a man who has lived a life unencumbered by shame, and that terrifies most people. I will have the strength in my body to strike you dead if you do not care for who or what I have been and am.”

            _A life without shame_.

            Wake pushes himself up, and says, “If you will excuse me, sir, I am not up to receiving visitors at the moment—“

            The words have shaken James. He says, “You have sailed.”

            Stopping, Wake sighs. He can clearly sense that James will not leave without some information. “I was ship’s surgeon. A pirate, technically, since I sailed with them, but I preferred patching men up as opposed to taking them apart. You might not believe that, given my proficiency with a blade, but a man can have a skill he does not care to use unless absolutely necessary.” He turns to the door, grimacing at the damage done to it, though James has repaired it to the best of his abilities. “Now, Mr. Moore—“

            “What ship?”

            “ _The Golem_.”

            “I’ve never heard of it.”

            Wake opens the door, lifting James’ things from the hook beside the door. “You wouldn’t have,” he says. “We never flew the black.”

            Offended, James says, “Then you weren’t pirates. You were mere thieves.”

            Calmly looking James in the eyes, Wake replies, “We never flew the black, Mr. Moore. We only flew the red.”

            James goes still. Wake waits, holding out his things.

            After a moment, James pushes himself to his feet. He goes to the door, slipping into his boots. He takes his cloak and blanket from Wake, pulling them on.

            “I thank you for your care, Mr. Moore,” Wake says. “Thursday at 6, if that suits you. I would suggest eating first. I am a terrible cook.”

            James nods, keeping a wary eye on Wake. “Thursday at 6.”

            He steps over the threshold, and Wake asks suddenly, “How much of a fool did I make of myself? I have no memory of it.”

            “You alternated between calling me Henry and Samael.”

            Wake laughs softly at the latter. “Samael. The angel of death. You should be flattered.”

            “And Henry?”

            Unshakeable, Wake replies, “Who do _you_ think Henry is?”

            “I assumed your brother.”

            Wake smiles, and pats the wall. “Good day, Mr. Moore.” He shuts the door.

            James walks away, putting up his hood. Three days, Christ. Curiosity does not even cover it.

            Black sails, he can understand. People the world over fear the black sails, because they think it means death. It does not. Any sailor knows that the black means the other ship is being asked to surrender.

            But the red—red sails are an assurance that every last living soul aboard will be cut down where they stand.


	12. The Tale of Ezra Wake

It is a long three days. James has little patience for waiting. Not these days, at least. On the sea, he could hunt another vessel for days, even weeks or months if the need be. He had been willing to play the longest of games to make a free Nassau.

            But three days, waiting to return to Wake—it is ridiculous, the strain.

            At last, the time comes, and James walks to Wake’s along the road. He has no idea how the man managed to walk through the forest in his condition last week. At points, the snow comes up to James’ knees in the woods. So instead, he follows the road, the moon rising in a starry sky.

            When he turns the corner to Wake’s, he can see candle light leaking through the shutters. He hears the dog bark once, but not again.

            The door opens. Wake holds it wide, nodding. “Mr. Moore,” he calls. He moves away from the door, leaving James to enter on his own.

            There is a fire crackling in the stove, and candles have been put out by the chairs. Cu Sith sits obediently by one, following James’ every movement with her eyes. James closes the door, and removes his cloak.

            Wake moves about in the kitchen. James asks, “How do you feel?”

            “Quite well. Thank you for asking. And you? I don’t suppose you’ve broken out in spots?”

            “I’ve not.”

            “A pity. I suppose we shall have to proceed with this confessional, then. Have a seat, Mr. Moore.”

            It is obvious where James is meant to sit. The two chairs face one another, with six feet of distance between them. The chair closest to the wall holds the journal that James found in the floor. Unloosening his scabbard, James sets it by the chair, then sits. He keeps his fingers near the hilt.

            Wake appears at his side with two pewter cups and a bottle. He looks entirely recovered, with no red spots, and his usual amiable amusement on his face. “I have been saving this for quite some time,” he says, setting down one of the cups. He breaks the seal on the bottle, pulling out the cork. “It is rare that I have company, so I suppose we shall make an occasion of it.”

            He fills the cup, then picks it up and drinks from it. He sighs with pleasure.

            “Christ—it has been three years since I have had a decent wine.” Setting it down, Wake goes to his seat. “Hopefully that will prove I haven’t attempted to poison you, but if you decide not to drink, I’ll gladly take it from you.”

            As he pours himself out a large portion, James asks, “What is your name?”

            “Ezra Wake.”

            With a snort, James replies, “Yes, and mine is James Moore.”

            “For all I know, it could be.” He sets down the bottle on a small table beside the chair, and has another sip of wine.

            “You said you would tell me who you are.”

            Shrugging, Wake puts down the cup, and goes under the stairs. “It would be the name on the warrants.”

            “The one on mine say Captain Flint. Your name.”

            Wake reaches up, and pulls his sword from its hiding place. Its scabbard is not leather, but lacquered. Wake pulls the sword out from it a few inches, then closes it again. He goes to the chair, picking up the journal, and sits down. Settling in, he places his sword at his side, then sets the journal upon his knees.

            “Ezra Wake,” he repeats calmly. “You came here wearing the clothes of the pirate. I came here with my name. Neither of us were willing to entirely split with our pasts.” Wake picks up his cup. “Besides, Ezra Wake is not a name that many people know. I’ve never been famous. I’ve never _wanted_ to be famous.”

            The dig is quite clear. “Nor did I.”

            Wake arches a brow, drinking, then sets his pale hands upon the journal. His rings are still in place, upon the second finger of his left hand, and the thumb of his right. “I see you even found this.”

            James has to ask. At least the once. “How did you know?”

            With a smile, Wake answers, “You put it back in upside down.”

            He turns the book in his lap, so that it is facing James. But then Wake opens it, and lightly runs his fingers over the words from right to left.

            Upside down. Oh—for heaven’s sake. “You write from right to left,” James says, exasperated with himself.

            “I do.”

            “One would say paranoia.”

            “Says the man who went looking under my floorboards to locate this,” Wake replies with a laugh. He looks down at the book. With a wistful smile, he shakes his head. “It is strange circumstances, sir. That after all my days, and the many things I have seen and done, it is you of all people who will hear my story. I will be honest with you. You have saved my life, and you ask for honesty, so that is what you shall receive. But if you don’t like what you hear, and you think to cross me—“ Wake reaches over with his left hand, scratching Cu Sith behind the ear. “Let’s just say that Corporal Arnold was not the first that my companion has made a meal of.”

            James exhales, and says, “Your name.”

            Wake rolls his eyes. “Ezra Wake.” He lifts a hand before James can be any further frustrated. “Though of course, it was not the name I was born with. I follow a long family tradition in that regard, so any name I give you will have little bearing on my true ancestry.”

            “Which is?”

            “I’ve told you, I was born in England. My father, he was born in Amsterdam. His father was Portuguese. Further back from that, and I think you’d accuse me of dissembling.”

            “How precisely does a family go from Portugal, to Holland, to England?”

            Raising his shoulders, Wake says, “Is it not obvious?” James could growl. He honestly could. When Wake sees that he does not understand, he lets out a single laugh. “Sir, I am a Jew.”

            For a moment, James can only stare at him.

            Then he feels like an absolute simpleton.

            Picking up his cup, Wake encourages, “Have a drink, Moore. Nichnas yayin, yatza sod, after all.” After a swallow, Wake remarks, “Oh, of course, this was made with the blood of children. That is how we make all our wines.”

            James does pick up his cup. “I thought you didn’t kill children.”

            “If it comes to a good wine, I would.” Wake sets his hands down on the pages, and smiles slightly. “So. Let us begin.”

 

“My grandfather was a _converso_ , from a long line, as my father told it. Jews who converted instead of being exiled. You probably know August 1, 1492 as the day Columbus set sail for the new world. In my family, it’s remembered as the day we were expelled from Spain. Every man, woman, and child who were people of the book. So up they went and crossed the border into Portugal, only to find that the situation there was little better, when the Portuguese banished all Jews in 1497. Convert, leave, or die. At the time, it wasn’t as if anyone was willing to take us. So my family converted. Publicly, at least. For a century, our family—Oliveira, if you want that name—were good Christians. And for a time, that served.

            “But then Spain and Portugal united in 1580, and that meant the Inquisition, and they never cared who was truly pious and who was merely trying to stay alive. My grandfather—Abílho Eustaquio Soares Oliveira—was born in 1690, and by the time he was ten he had already been tortured by the Inquisitors.”

            James says, “I asked for your story, not the whole fucking family tree.”

            “You will not understand my story if you do not know where I come from.” Wake gestures to his journal. “You couldn’t even recognize fucking Hebrew. Settle in, Moore. You require context.”

            James sighs, and leans back into the chair, for once not having to think about how he sits in front of another person.

            Wake flips through a few pages. “By that time, Holland had become more receptive to Jews. They declared their independence from Spain in 1579, and Amsterdam eventually became the only place where we could live in semi freedom for the next near century. My grandfather, when he was fourteen, escaped Portugal and fled to Amsterdam. He joined the community there, and changed his name to Abraham bar Ilan. Ah, bar Ilan means ‘son of the trees’ and Oliveira meant olive tree. Another family tradition, changing our names to something involving trees. That ended with me, thank God.

            “In those days, it was a very different time for Jews. They had gone from the—oppression of Catholic dogma to being Jews, actual Jews, only they had no idea what that meant. They were discovering for themselves what it did mean, and doing so under the great pirate rabbi Samuel Palache. Have you heard of him?”

            “I’ve not.”

            Wake exhales in disappointment. “Perhaps another time. He was the head of the community, and under him it was an unprecedented time and place of freedom for us.” He thinks, and says, “You know, what it’s like, to have that taste of freedom? After a lifetime? And then what happens when it is taken away?”

            After a moment, James nods.

            “Well, my grandfather came to Amsterdam in 1604, and until Palache died in ’13, it was a place of freedom and exploration and learning. A reclamation of who and what we were. Then of course, the pirate rabbi died, and men with much more rigid ideas about Judaism swept in to take control. It was like leaving the Inquisition for another, is what my grandfather told my father, but in strict confidence. If the council heard any kind of argument about how they led, you were apt to be excommunicated, and no one would even speak to you on the streets. They went from being terrified into pretending to be a certain kind of Christian to a certain kind of Jew. It was still better than being put on the rack, though, so my grandfather stayed. He did well enough. Book seller.

            “My father was the youngest of his sons. Li’av bar Ilan. He was a bright child, and not given to…convention. My grandfather had told him stories about what it was like to be free, and my father made enemies by speaking his mind one too many times. Always questions. Jews prize knowledge above all else. You would think that questions would be welcomed. And there were different sects in Amsterdam, but the one my grandfather belonged to was perhaps the most—conservative, shall we say? They were his kin, though, his daughters and sons had intermarried with them. My father, however, was not content to be stifled. He wanted to ask questions. Before he could get himself excommunicated, however, he went and did something exceedingly foolish.”

            Wake reaches over, and pets Cu Sith’s head. James guesses, “Fell in love.”

            “The most foolish thing a person can do,” Wake says with a crooked smile. “But he not only fell in love with an Englishwoman—he fell in love with a Christian.”

            “I don’t imagine that went over well.”

            “It was all very secret. Her father had come over from England during the Civil War. Royalist. Anyone who had an unpopular opinion was welcomed in Amsterdam, after all. He was another book seller, and a friend of my grandfather’s. My mother was also bright, and given to asking too many questions. Far more than a woman should, people said. No one in their right mind would marry her, people said, even if she is beautiful. And she was. My father loved her, and she loved him, and they resolved to go somewhere together and start afresh. So they changed their names from Li’av bar Ilan and Marian Young, and went to England, and set up residence as Leopoldo and Mary Carvalho. Carvalho means ‘oak.’ Said that he was Portuguese and that they were married—they never did—and that they were good Christians—which they were not. She converted in secret, though not officially. This was in 1666.”

            “Hell of a year to come to London.”

            “Precisely. You know what it’s like, though. Under the cover of chaos, a lot can be done. So he set up shop, as a bookseller, and over the next eighteen years proceeded to have seven boys. Seven, Mr. Moore. My poor mother. Only a woman as strong as her could have borne it. And then, in January of 1684, in the worst weather that London has ever seen, I was born, only a mere two centuries after our story begins.”

            Raising his brows, James prompts, “So your name was--?”

            With a soft laugh, Wake says, “Ezra Aaron Carvalho.”

            “How difficult was that?”

            “The name means nothing. My first name has never wavered, but the last—in the last two hundred years, my father’s side of the family changed their name a total of—“ Wake counts off on his fingers. “Four times. Who knows how many before that? We’re a transient people, an unwanted people. Names are pushed on us by people who loathe us, and chosen by us to represent who we are. Back and forth, and back and forth.”

            James has a drink of wine. It is good. He will admit it. Years of drinking rum—nothing but rum—and he has forgotten that this is a thing he once enjoyed. “So why exactly did I just sit through two hundred years of your family history?”

            “So that you will understand I am not an anomaly. I don’t know your opinion on my race, sir, nor do I care. In the least. People look at my kind as if we are liars and cheats, and I admit freely to being a liar. But when the alternative is exile or death, I defy anyone to tell me an entire people should be expected to expose themselves willingly to the ridicule and violence of religious hypocrites who preach forgiveness and yet burn children at the stake. I come from people who have hidden, and who have been bold, and who have yet maintained who they are, no matter the circumstances. Those are my people.”

            Wake takes a deep breath. “Being the youngest of eight children, my prospects were not exactly good. The business would go to my oldest brother, Jack. By the time I was born, two of my other brothers were already apprenticed out. There were so many of us that we always seemed to skirt the edges of being poor without ever quite tipping over. It was a happy household, though. My mother would teach us during the day, and my father would come home at night, and at the dinner table it was a never ending series of questions and debates and philosophical tests and reciting our prayers, and just this—constant, constant insistence on knowledge. The most powerful thing there is, he always told me. The most important thing there is. Ignorance leaves you weak. Know more than everyone else.

            “I took to it swimmingly. I’m much like my father. I never cared for convention and I was ravenous for knowledge. By the time I was three, I could read. They put a violin in my hands for the first time when I was four, and I was quite good within the year. When I was six, I could recite long passages from the Torah. I grew up speaking English outside the home, but within it I learned Hebrew, Latin, Portuguese. I was, I suppose, a bit of a prodigy, but there was never any talk of a life in academics of the such for me. After all, we were still hiding.

            “By that time, England actually had its first official Jewish citizens in over three hundred years, but it still felt perilous. Even with William on the throne. Especially since my father was a Jew and my mother had been a Christian. None of us boys were circumcised. We never fraternized with other Jews, lest we have suspicion fall upon our family. We did not keep to the Sabbath, and we went to church. So I also had to learn the Bible as well. From the start, I was taught to hide who and what I was, in preparation for the day that I would no longer have to. That was what my parents told me would happen. In their lifetimes, they had seen great changes. Eventually, we would be able to live freely, as who we truly were. It had happened in Holland, to a considerable extent, and change was occurring in England too. I was told to never feel shame for what I was. That the issue was not with me, or with us, but with the world being too slow to keep up with us. It will not surprise you, Mr. Moore, to hear that I come from a family of egotists.”

            “It would not,” James says with a straight face.

            Wake smiles, hands brushing through the pages. “I learned, and I remembered my lessons, and I became very good at…pretending. Amongst a family that lied about their very God in order to keep their mother and father from prison, I was especially skilled at putting on a performance. I’d watch the people outside, and mimic them. Put on performances for my brothers to make them laugh. My father caught me at it once and said I was being disrespectful, but my brothers loved it, and I wanted to please them—oh, Ezra, do Mrs. Wallace, do Mr. Baker’s voice, Ezra, please—so I kept up the practice. It would obviously serve me well later in life.

            “As I grew older, and was asked to consider a profession, I thought about Pirkei Avot 2:1--what is the right path a man should choose? Whatever is honorable to himself, and honorable in the eyes of others. And my father was always quoting Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5.” Wake lapses into that language that comes from the back of the throat, words skipping out over one another. “Kol hamatzil nefesh achât mi’Yisra’êl ke’ilu hitsil olâm malê. Whoever saves a single life is as if he had saved the universe entire. I thought, with all my talents, what I would like to do best is to help others. To be a physician. Apothecary. Hell, surgeon even, whoever would take me. That is the path I chose. The irony—that I chose a profession which would save lives, and that choice leading to how many I’ve taken—is not lost upon me.

            “My father found me an apprenticeship with a local physician. Caleb Cartwright. He had been a good physician. Once. But by that point, he was quite given over to drink, a fact that my father was not aware of when the deal was struck. I learned quickly, though, reading all the texts that he had, getting my hands dirty, doing anything he asked of me. He asked more and more, until honestly I was doing near all of his work by the time I was seventeen. I was very good at what I did, for such a young man. Still much to learn, but…quite good.”

            Wake pauses a moment. He takes a long drink from his cup, then fills it again.

            “And here, Mr. Moore, is where my troubles began.”

            Cu Sith senses something in his voice. She pushes her head towards him, and Wake absentmindedly strokes her head as he flips through the pages from right to left.

            “My brother Samuel, who was the sixth born of my brothers, had recently returned from sea. He worked on a merchant ship. He had just married, in Bristol, and asked me to come visit. I’d not seen him in years, and as a child he had been—well, a brother should not say he chose favourites, but when there were eight of us, I don’t think I can be begrudged liking one a little more than the others. It was the first time I had ever been outside of London. Cartwright pitched a fit, but I had given him years of loyal service, and no one could fault me a brief respite to see a beloved brother. If he had simply said no, sir, I would not be here. I would be in London this very moment, of that I am certain. Not wealthy, but surrounded by books, and people who ask questions, and it would not be so very…quiet.

            “As it is—I went to Bristol. I was there for all of a day when I was pressed. My brother had a friend who would tip off the navy about people who might be valuable to them. I was a landsman, yes, but every ship needs a surgeon, does it not? Especially in a war. My brother had been bragging about me, about my skills—my mother and father wrote him many effusive letters about me—and he told this friend about me, and—they came. They took me. One week, I’m measuring out ointment to treat an old man’s hemorrhoids, and the next I’m on a bloody ship headed for fucking Spain.” Wake shakes his head, his eyes dark. “There are a great many things I hate in this life, Mr. Moore—but her and his majesty’s service comes extremely close to the top of the list. And their officers—whether they be of land or sea…let me say that it was not entirely for your benefit that I dispatched our friends from the east.”

            Wake looks at James and asks, “How long were you in the navy?” James says nothing, merely keeping his arms folded and his gaze steady. The disdain in Wake’s voice is clear. “You carry yourself like one of them. Even after all these years. I could see it just by looking at you.”

            “My story is not the one in question this evening.”

            “No. It is not. Well—I will assume you chose your vocation, sir. I did _not_ choose the sea. I _hate_ the sea.” James is reminded, strongly, of Flint, and feels his hands curl inwards. Wake continues, “Until that day, I had never even seen the sea before, and had no desire to. I was born and raised in the city. I loved the city. Samuel, he could not wait to sail. There are some men the ocean calls to, but I was resolutely not one. The vastness of it. The silence. The brutality. We heard the rumors of what it was like on the merchant ships. I couldn’t believe that he’d so willingly put himself in such harm’s way, but my family have never been cowards. Cautious, yes. Cowards, no.

            “I fought as well as I could, but I am not the largest of men, and I was soft. I had gotten into fights in the streets, but it had been childish matters. It is a far different thing, fighting a man in the streets and fighting a man who has twenty years at sea. Knocked me flat, and then we’re sailing God only knows where and I’m told to be ready for battle. Battle. It was ridiculous. I couldn’t believe the straits in which I found myself. I did the only thing I could think of. In my head, I spoke my prayers to myself over and over again. Told myself that my ancestors had endured worse. The people of the book have always suffered, and I was just taking part in a fine family tradition that would someday end. Every day I would puke my insides up at the rocking of that infernal boat on the water, and the stench of the men around me, and I’d try to shield myself from their ignorance, their cruelty. I told myself it was a temporary condition.

            “We didn’t make Spain. I knew so little about sailing, sir, that I could not tell you now what the battle was, or the day. I was merely trying to survive, and all of a sudden there’s cannons and men with pieces of the deck sticking out of their faces and the screaming—you know what the sound is like. I don’t know how it affected you, the first time, but for me, at seventeen—it was hell’s own. And I’m a Jew, Moore—I don’t even believe there _is_ a hell. The ship sank before I could be any good at all, and I was fished from the water and placed aboard the _Persephone_.”

            At that, James tilts his head, and Wake nods. “You’ve heard of her. You know her fate, and can surmise how I came to my new set of circumstances. But I will tell you what came before her end. What happened is this—I immediately began plotting my escape. After the sinking of the _Calliope_ , I resolved to not let this condition continue. I was not made for it. I counted how many of us were aboard, those who were pressed and those who volunteered, and I kept track of who died, and those of us compelled to be there were dying at twice the rate. It was not a fate I meant to greet quietly. And I know what you’re thinking. It was a damned foolish thing to even consider. Impossible, and doomed to fail. Of course it was. But I didn’t know that. I was seventeen, and I knew nothing of a life at sea.

            “I made friends of the others my age who had been similarly kidnapped. I made one friend in particular. Walter. He was desperate to escape as well. In one of the battles, a piece of debris sheared off his ear. I patched it up for him quite nicely, and he was grateful, and we became close. I’d not had many friends in London. Our family kept to ourselves for the most part. We amused one another, and we had no need for people who didn’t understand us. This was the first time I found a person my own age who I felt a kinship with. We were not nearly on the same intellectual level, but he—appreciated me. Was impressed by my skills. In the midst of all that misery, it was one of my few joys. So I lowered my guard. I told him things. I would say that I should not have, but again—I am not ashamed of who I am. I was honest with him. He is the one who failed me. I did not fail myself.

            “We were headed for the Indies. My position as surgeon gave me certain privileges the others did not possess, some freedom of movement. I believed that when we reached the islands, I would be able to disembark. That perhaps I could find my way back on a merchant vessel. Even if it was headed to Africa, I would somehow make my way north from there. No knowledge save what I’d read in books, and I thought I could just—“ Wake stops a moment, frowning at himself. “I was naïve. Terribly naïve. But hopeful. In those days, I still had hope that I would go home, that I merely had to survive this trial.

            “Walter was caught stealing food. We had a particular vicious captain. Captain Ira Johnstone. I’d seen him dole out all manner of punishment for the merest of infractions. He was a monster. All my years, I have seen many, many terrible things, but that man—was a fucking monster. But there was something he hated more than anything else. More than the Spanish. More than some idiot stealing food.

            “All of a sudden, I’m being hauled up on deck by two officers and thrown down, and Walter’s shrieking to everyone that this Jew was secretly poisoning them all, and I was a spy for the Spanish, and I had admitted to killing innocents to make my remedies, and just this—frantic, hysterical nonsense that no one in their right minds would have believed. But it had been a hard few weeks at sea, and everyone needed _someone_ to vent their frustrations upon. And Captain Johnstone, we all knew how he felt about Jews. Ranted and raved about them enough. I could see in his face that I wasn’t going to see any quarter of mercy. So when he asked me if what Walter said was true, if I’d been plotting to betray them to the Spanish like the treacherous Christ killer that I was, I told him that the only thing I’d plotted was to get the hell away from them, because they’d bloody kidnapped me. And they were welcome to stitch themselves up from now on, if they insisted on being idiots about the whole affair.”

            Wake shrugs, nonplussed. “So they tied me to the main mast, and proceeded to whip the living hell out of me. Pirates, they’ll stop at 39. No telling how many those good men of the navy gave me. They’d go for about ten minutes at a time, then take an hour before starting again. Made a game of it. Hours, and hours, and hours. They didn’t stop until night fall. By the end I was so delirious I could only weep and mutter my prayers. They left me tied to the mast for two days. Then they pulled me down into the brig, and tossed me in. And then, Mr. Moore, the good officers of her majesty’s navy proceeded to abuse me in every possible way.”

            At that, Wake leans over, and Cu Sith tilts up her head. “Awful story, isn’t it, my darling.” She licks his face, and he strokes her muzzle with a small smile. “Awful, terrible story.” He kisses her nose, then pushes her head down and sits back.

            “The first two weeks, I continued telling myself that it was only a thing to be survived. Everything they did, I made no plea. I did not beg, and I did not cry. I told myself that I was from God’s chosen people, and we had always suffered. Every time they came in, I told myself to be patient. This would pass.

            “Then one day the ship stopped. We’d reached—somewhere. Walter came down, said he’s sorry, but he had to. I’m not so much a saint that I wasn’t livid. I told him that once I got out of there, I was going to wring his scrawny neck. To that, he said I wasn’t getting out of there. When the ship set sail again, I was going to be transported back to England for trial. And hung. All on the word of a boy I thought was my friend, whose wounds I had patched. I think that was the moment things changed for me. I knew the world was a terrible place. The stories my father told me about our people—but telling me always that it would be _better_. One day, Ezra, it will be a different world. We can walk amongst the rest. We will be equal. But in that brig—bloodied, half starved, betrayed, facing my own death based on nothing but the word of a fool, a fool I had trusted—I came to a very different conclusion.

            “This world is terrible. And it will always be terrible. I would not hide who or what I was. My parents had taught me to feel no shame, but to hide who I was. The two notions are incompatible. Hoping, praying to a God who was at best indifferent and at worst the creator of all these sorrows, it was pointless. It had gotten me into this situation, because I had been naïve. I might be fated to die, but I was not going to go willingly. I would fight. Ve’im lo achshâv, ei’matây. And if not now, when? We wait, and wait, for the world to be given to us. We cannot wait. We must _take_. Pirkei Avot 1:14—if I am not for myself, who will be for me? The next line has to do with being for others, but in that brig, I realized that it mattered not. There was no one else for me to worry myself with. My goal was survival, and if that was unachievable, than it was to live the last weeks of my life honestly and unyielding. So the next man who came in through that door who tried to abuse me, I bit off his prick. The first mate, it was. He was beating me about the head, screaming for help, and I just held on until the thing came off in my mouth. Then I spit it out at him and told him to try putting that back on.”

            Calmly, Wake takes a drink.

            “After that, I put up quite the fight. Stopped speaking English entirely, and just screamed at them in Hebrew whenever they came near. They wouldn’t feed me for days, wouldn’t give me water, trying to make me pliant. It worked, of course it worked, but then they would try to get in through those bars, and I would remember that I had nothing— _nothing_ —to be ashamed of, and I made them hurt for every inch they took from me.

            “I’m not sure how long it went on for. But one day I woke to the sound of cannons. I was half out of my mind. Hadn’t eaten in days. No idea when I last had water. A ball went through the side of ship no further than three feet from my face, but I couldn’t move for weakness and hunger. I just laid there, and listened to the battle overhead. Eventually it stopped.

            “About an hour went by, and I started to hear voices in the other room. No telling if they were familiar or not. The door opened, and they started cursing. Presumably at the smell. I could hear metal bending. Turns out the bars had been damaged in the assault, but I was so weak I hadn’t even noticed. They managed to pop the door off with their bare hands, nothing more, and then—“ Wake holds his hands apart, as if he is holding up something large and wide. “My head is being held in this massive pair of hands, and I am looking at the _blackest_ man I have ever seen in my life. So black that the whites of his eyes seemed a shock. I could see the pity in his face, and he asked me, who are you? I said, I’m the doctor. They threw me in here when they found out I’m a Jew. And if you give a fuck, just leave me here to die.” Wake drops his hands. “And he said, in a fair more upper class tone than I at the time possessed, he said, no, I don’t think I shall care about that at all. And that, sir, was Henry, who if you cannot surmise from my description of him, was decidedly _not_ my brother.”

            James cannot help the faintest of smiles.

            “He picked me up as if I was a child. At that point, I doubt I weighed little more than one. He was huge—a full foot taller than myself, no hair, rings in both his ears. Hands that could have crushed a man’s skull. Shoulders like an albatross. He carried me above deck, and I saw the carnage. The vessel had been badly damaged, and boarded, by as motley a group as I had ever seen. Amid it all, there was a man in a bright green jacket, a red scarf, wearing rings on every finger. A peacock if ever there was one, though his sartorial choices were not a cover for any weakness, let me assure you. He asked Henry, what have we here. Henry told him I was the ship’s doctor, and the man in the green jacket said, why, what a coincidence. Our surgeon’s just been killed because your foolish captain would not surrender. I said, he’s not my captain. He did this to me. The man in the green jacket said, whatever for, and I said, because I’m Ezra the Jew. I asked to be put down. It was the first time in a month that I’d been in the air, been in the light. The man in the green jacket, he smiled—“ Wake gestures to his mouth. “Showed me more gold in his mouth than on his hands, and said, you wouldn’t be my first. So will you join my crew?

            “I said, I’ve one condition. Imagine that, sir—me, seventeen years of age, beaten, bloodied, barely able to stand, traitorous crew on one side and pirates on the other, and I’m telling this pirate captain that I’ve a condition for joining his crew.

            “He took it in good humor, and said, of course. Surgeons are highly sought after, and I will certainly take your condition under consideration. What is it that you ask?

            “I said, kill every single man onboard.”

            James has heard the story of the _Persephone_. Large sloop, 150 men aboard. It was discovered adrift several weeks after departing from Jamaica. It was a ghost story they told one another in the navy, a story to scare the younger ones about pirates. No one ever took responsibility for what happened to it.

            Now he knows.

            Wake continues, as easily as if he is discussing the weather. “The captain, he looked rather grave at that, and said, that’s quite the request. I said, I’m a damned fine doctor, but if that’s not enough for you, I also play the violin. And he said, oh, well, if you can manage a fiddle, you’ll be most welcome. So it began. The slaughter of the _Persephone_. The crew had already been disarmed and rounded up, so really, it was just a matter of patience and herding them like cattle. The captain and I sat together and watched it be done. I thank him for honouring my request. He said it was no great hardship. He hated the English navy near as much as he hated the Spanish. It was then that I saw Walter at the back, and I asked the captain if he would mind another request. He saw that I had my eye on someone, and asked if I wanted a go. I said I would. So he told the crew to stand down a moment, and asked for a man to give me his sword. It was the first time I’d really held one with the intention of using it.

            “And Walter, he begged and wept and made a spectacle of himself. Reminded me that we were friends, that he’d only done what he had to. I heard him out, then I swung that sword at him with all the little strength I had left in my body.” Wake touches his forehead, then pulls his fingers across to the opposite side of his jaw. “Cut his head in half. He’s the first person I ever killed. Never felt a moment’s regret for it.”

            “And Johnstone?”

            “Oh, he was saved for the last. When Redding took an entire crew, he made the captains watch the whole thing before sending them to their deaths. Johnstone was tied to the very same mast where I had been lashed. Henry asked the captain if he could have the pleasure, which he was granted. He put up his fists—“ Wake lifts his. “And proceeded to beat the life out of the man who would have condemned me. Killed him with his bare hands.”

            Wake smiles fondly at the memory. Then he looks back down at his book, flipping through the pages.

            “So I sailed away, a free man, for perhaps the first time in my life, on the _Arabica_ , under Captain Jameson Redding, former privateer. You’ve heard of him, I daresay.”

            “Indeed. The coat.”

            With a soft laugh, Wake says, “That coat. It was the silliest thing. But he adored it. Every other man I knew was in sail cloth, black and white and browns, and then there’s this man in his green coat. I could tell from our time speaking that he was a reasonable man, at least compared to the bastards I had been to sea with the last few months. It was extraordinary. Every man aboard—had an equal vote. Regardless of where they came from, what they had done. The colour of their skin. Henry, he was boatswain. Our ship master, Mr. Whyte, he was down a leg. I wasn’t even the only Jew aboard. Our cook, Cribs, his mother had been a Jewess. Everyone, if they followed the rules—which were fair, which applied to all of us in equal measure—they were free. I didn’t realize until I was among them that there was no turning back from that. Once I saw what life could be like—a life where I did not have to hide _anything_ —how could I ever go back to England? Or anywhere else, where a man is considered less because of his god, his race, his past? On the _Arabica_ , we were free.” Wake shakes his head, then asks, “Do you understand?”

            James takes a moment, then nods once. “I do.”

            “I was in quite the state when I first came aboard. Not good for much. They sat me down and propped me up and I dealt with as many wounds as I was able. Even in my condition, they could still see I was very skilled. From the start they said that on my worst day I was better than their previous surgeon at his best. I was a quite different man than the one who went into that brig, however. I did not care for company. To be touched by another was—abhorrent to me. It took me some time to heal, and I did not eat with the others, did not want to speak to them. Because of my abilities, they let me be.

            “All save Henry. He had rescued me, after all, and I had watched him murder my tormentor. I did not mind his presence. He was a strange creature. I’d not met another like him. We saw few slaves in our quarter of London. Couldn’t afford them. Henry, he had been sold to a lord as a small boy. So young that he could not even remember from where he came. The only place he remembered was England. He was basically a pet for the lord’s elderly aunt. She coddled him, taught him to read, taught him his numbers. He was bright, very much so. Once she died, he continued to work in his lordship’s house until he was twelve years of age. Then he was sent with the lord’s son to Jamaica. Halfway there, the ship was taken by Spanish privateers. He was saved on account of that elderly aunt teaching him Spanish. They set him to work, and he began to learn the riggings and the workings of the ship and such. And then a year or so after that, as I recall, he crossed paths with Captain Redding, who at the time had a letter of marque. Well, the two got on so well that Henry stayed with him even when Redding decided that legal thievery wasn’t satisfying him, and switched to attacking any ship that neared him.

            “I was suspicious of him at first. My last friend had been Walter, after all. But on the _Arabica_ , I was completely honest about everything. I never lied about a thing, never hid, never let anyone shame me for a single jot. I never gave anyone the chance to double cross me, because I was brutally honest. I’d spent my life not letting others know who I was, being told that the day when I would be free would come—eventually. But on that vessel, I was free, and I was known as Ezra the Jew. That’s what they called me. Either Ezra, or the Jew. And I loved to hear them call me that. No dissembling. My name, my identity, for all to see.

            “Eventually, Henry made a friend of me. Despite his ability to beat a man to death, he was honestly quite gentle. After a life sold into bondage, he didn’t like to see other people abused. He—made a special project of me, I suppose. He kept me company. Taught me to fight. Asked if I wanted to know how to work the ship, and I said absolutely not. I was responsible for enough. We had a man aboard, Masaru, who hailed from Japan. He was infamous for his skill with the blade. I was quick enough in a fight, but I didn’t have a great deal of strength in the beginning. Henry thought I might be better suited to the sword, and asked Masaru to train me. That was when I started to finally…recover from my time aboard the _Persephone_ , if you will. Being given the skills to protect myself. That was a great comfort.

            “I took to it, as you can tell from the encounter in October. I listened to his stories, and I flourished there, among the crew. First with Henry, then Masaru, then the rest. Hearing all the tales they had to tell, and eating with them, having them point out the constellations to me. They would give me a fiddle, and I would play long into the night for their pleasure. I became a part of the crew.

            “I refined my skills as a surgeon. I recorded my experiences, and I did everything in my power to keep them alive. By that time we had long since left the Indies. Redding thought it prudent after the _Persephone_ , and he said that it was getting a little crowded there for his tastes. So our territory was Africa, then India, depending on where the money seemed to be. We were never in it to make our fortunes and retire. We were merely in it to live freely. And so we did.

            “Men came and went, whether willingly or because they were killed. We stole, and the men would go out and come back sometimes in pieces, and I’d put them back together, and I was a favoured member of the crew, for my ability as a surgeon, and my fiddle, and my own capacity for telling stories. I’d spent a childhood in study, after all, and I always had a taste for the macabre. I’d tell stories about monsters and fairies and myths, and I was content.

            “It occurred to me little that what I was doing was so different from what I intended. I knew that my colleagues, as it were, murdered others as a part of their living, but by then I’d killed several more times as well. My connection to God was by then a tenuous one. Henry and I would argue about it—not argue, really, but debate. He was convinced in an almighty God, the God of the Christians. He prayed every night. The fool. I’d tell him, there’s no point. None of us are being forgiven, and why should we be? We’re only trying to live. He would say that God forgave all, if only we’d ask. Otherwise we would end up in hell for what we had done. We had a bet, he and I. A bet that could never be fulfilled, of course. I bet that there was no hell. He bet there was. And we’d find out who won once we’d died.

            “I don’t know how it was for you, but I adapted to my new life quite easily. I thought sometimes about writing to my parents, to let them know that I lived. But I thought it better that they believed I had died when the _Calliope_ went down. Bad enough to lose a child. Worse to find out that he’s become a pirate. I felt no regrets about the decision—these people had saved me, whereas England would have doomed me—but I had no desire to add to their hardships. So I have had no contact with them, these twenty years. I do not know if they still live or not. I do think of that sometimes now, that I am alone.”

            Wake has another drink, then gestures to the bottle. “Do you care for more?”

            James hesitates, then nods. Wake corks the bottle, then tosses it one handed to James. Filling his cup, James listens as Wake goes on.

            “I was with the _Arabica_ for eight years. Most men, they’re pirates for maybe, maybe a decade. The famous ones—oh, three years at best. But we were not famous. Known, well enough, but we kept a low enough profile to keep from being hunted. We made some coin, kept our heads down, and our luck held. For eight years. That is a very good stretch.

            “Of course, all good things must come to an end. And the _Arabica_ met hers, fittingly, in the Arabian Sea. We were coming around the Laccadive Islands when out of nowhere comes this great ship. The _Arabica_ , she wasn’t huge. 85 feet, a little over a hundred men on the crew at the time. Thirty guns. But this thing that came after us—it had to be 115 feet. Fifty guns. Massive. Fucking massive. I thought we had speed on our side, but when you see a great ship bearing down on you with four masts, well—we had been in plenty of scrapes, but I thought, _if this isn’t it, it’ll be damned close_. As it was, it was our time. Outgunned, outmanned—and then outmaneuvered, unfortunately. Redding was getting on in years, and he made a bad call.” Wake shrugs. “Nothing against the man. He was a fine captain, and did me nothing but kindnesses. I’ll always be grateful, and I can’t fault him one mistake. He didn’t heel quickly enough—I couldn’t tell. Even after all those years, I am still useless with the workings of a ship. I only have room in my head for so much. But Henry was cursing up a blue storm beside me, and he was never, ever one to question Redding. Loved the man like a father. But here he is next to me, saying, what in the fuck is he doing. That’s when I knew it wasn’t going to be close. That’s when I knew we were either dead on that day, or headed for the gallows.

            “They caught up to us, and we managed to get in the first volley. But fifty guns to thirty—it was no match. It felt like half the ship blew apart. I was running all over, trying to get to the men who were the worst off. Henry was yelling at me to get below deck, and I told him to stop being sentimental. Then I hear from above me—I fear the day may be lost, Ezra. I looked up, and there was Captain Redding. I said, no sir. We’ve got them right where we want them. He smiled at me, and said, good man. Fuck the lot of them. And then—“

            Wake’s hands burst apart. He drops his hands, and shakes his head for a moment.

            He looks towards the window as he speaks. “I woke up in the water. I was practically on the shore, I could even stand up. I looked back, and there was almost nothing left of her. What was left was burning. One of our last hauls—gun powder. They hit that, and there went my home of eight years.

            “Bodies were coming ashore. I spotted Henry face down in the water. Hard to miss him, dark as he was, big as he was. Turned him over and dragged him up onto the beach. He wasn’t breathing, and I started pounding on his chest to get the water out of him. Honestly, in all of that, I wasn’t scared until that moment. When I thought he was gone. But he started spitting up water, and the first thing the bastard says to me is, I suppose you think we’re even now. I laughed at that, but one of those tired, giddy laughs. The kind of thing that only comes out of you when the situation is a terrible one.

            “While he lay there, I started to look for survivors. Right away, I found Masaru. He was sitting under a tree. Piece of the ship about—“ Wake holds his hands two feet apart. “This long sticking out of his belly. He was barely breathing. Tough old man. I went to help, but he just stopped my hand. And held this out to me.” He touches the sword that leans against his chair. “This is all I have with me from the _Arabica_.

            “A hundred men went in the water, and five lived to tell the tale.” Wake holds up the three middle fingers of his right hand. “Three negroes.” He adds his pinkie and thumb. “Two Jews. Henry and I, Cribs, Oliver Kingston and Burial McCoy. We fled into the trees, and hid there while the party from the great ship looked for survivors. Their search wasn’t exactly thorough. The shoreline was littered with body parts. They’d blown our ship to pieces. So off they went, and then it was just the five of us.

            “That night, Cribs asked the question. What now? He asked Henry, because he had been made quartermaster by that point. He was in charge, and we all knew it. And Henry, he thought about it a moment, and he said, here’s how I see it, gentlemen. He said our survival was fortuitous. That only negroes and Jews would survive the sinking of the ship. As he figured it, the only way to honour God for that was to find ourselves a ship—and crew it solely with blacks and Jews.”

            There is no stopping the grin that spreads across James’ face. He puts his head down and starts to laugh.

            “Exactly,” Wake agrees. “That’s the look I had on my face. I said, you’re mad. You are absolutely mad. He said, so you won’t be coming with us? I said, don’t be ridiculous, of course I am. So we set about making our escape from the island, building a craft made from the remains that washed ashore, and crossed the two hundred miles to India. From there—we began our new adventure.”

            “No wonder you flew the red,” James says, and the admiration in his tone is honest.

            “No wonder. We had to. If anyone discovered that there was a ship like ours? God, we would have been hunted down in less than a fortnight. When we got to India, we had nothing. Absolutely nothing. Five men with an insane idea and, even worse, the conviction to carry it out. We stole enough to secure transport to Morocco, and from there we began recruiting. We had our contacts from our days on the _Arabica_ , and it wasn’t that difficult to round up fifty good men who we could trust. Good men, but terrible, you know how I mean. Morally flexible, but loyal, willing to take a great risk. We told them from the start that we would fly the red, and if they had a problem with that, they had best decline. But tell free men that they’ll have the opportunity to plunder those men who put their people into bondage, then cut off their heads at the end? We had ourselves able, fine men who were also fanatics. Henry’s men numbered about thirty, and my kind a little over twenty. He was captain, of course. Burial was quartermaster, and Oliver ship’s master. Once we had our crew, all we needed was a ship. So we gathered in Tangier, and we waited.”

            “The corsairs?”

            “Oh, they gave us a little trouble, but the four of us could handle ourselves quite ably, even if Cribs was useless for anything but cooking.” Wake snorts softly. “They came on us once, tried to make a slave of Henry. We sent them off with fewer limbs than they had arrived with, and they didn’t bother another attempt.

            “Finally the day arrived. She came into the harbour. Beautiful little frigate, thirty guns. Should have had a crew of 200, but—well, we were tempting fate having gathered the fifty of us. We knew we could pick up more men later, but to start, we only had fifty. I was standing with Henry, and he pointed her out and said, there she is. I knew, just looking at her that he was right. I still know painfully little about vessels—my expertise has and always will be in the medical arts—but I could see from looking at her that she would suit our needs. Not too big, not too small, not ostentatious. Then he asked me what we ought to name her. I balked, of course. It was to be his ship. He was captain, he ought to name her. But he insisted I choose the name. So that night, we swarmed her, killed every man on board, and the _Golem_ left Tangier, down the African coast. Our destination was to be India, and our base of operations Madagascar.

            “As we went, we began our first assaults. We started small. Merchant ships. The men would kill all the whites, and if there were any slaves aboard, they’d be asked if they wanted to join. Quite easily, our crew numbered a hundred by the time we reached Madagascar. We settled in for a short while, building up our stores, planning our operation. It was 1711 by this point. We had some spoils from our raids on the merchant ships, and could afford the respite. Besides, a number of our crew were just freed from bondage. They were deserving of the time. So Henry and I built a house on the island, and the men had their fun, and we prepared for our endeavour. We were already deviants of a special nature in the eyes of God, so he said we ought to make it truly official, and—“ Wake lifts his left hand, curling the finger with the ring for just a moment.

            James does not understand the gesture at first.

            But then he does. Very, very clearly.

            “Good _Christ_ ,” he barks.

            Raising his brows, Wake says innocently, “Yes, Mr. Moore?”

            Leaning forward, James exclaims, “You were matelot. With a negro.”

            At that, Wake bursts into laughter. He covers his mouth, so delighted by what James has said that he does not seem able to stop himself. His expression is such that James realizes that he has gotten it wrong. No. No, what Wake has said so far only makes sense if—but good grief, the audacity of this man if it is true.

            When Wake gets himself under control, he shakes his head, a chuckle still falling out here and there. “No, Mr. Moore. Don’t be ridiculous.” Sitting back, Wake says, “I married him.”

            James stares at him. He does _not_ understand.

            Wake puts his hands on the arms of the chair, fingers grazing the handle of his blade. “I loved him, and he loved me. I loved him as a wife loves her husband. So why should I not have him in the same way? We found a minister in India and held him at the point of a blade and had him wed us, right and proper. He was hysterical afterwards, talking about how we’d just damned us all, and Burial lost his temper and ran him through. Then Joseph, one of our new men, pointed out that if we really wanted to make sure it was proper, we ought to be married by a magistrate as well. So we did the same thing, only this time Henry killed the man after he said something unkind about my race. I’d gone by Henry’s name for some time—people on the _Arabica_ had called me Mrs. Wake for years, but it certainly made more sense to take his name proper before setting out on the _Golem_. It didn’t make much sense for the others to call me The Jew when twenty other of my brethren were aboard.”

            It is possibly the most bold and blasphemous thing James has ever heard of. He has no idea how he might even respond to such a story.

            Wake takes the sword lightly between his fingers, and flips it over so that it lays across his lap. He keeps one hand on the lacquered scabbard and the other rests casually upon the handle. He looks perfectly calm, but Cu Sith lowers her head a little, baring her teeth at James.

            “I’ve told you—I have lived a life unencumbered by shame. I know who I am, what I am, and what I am is repellant to most. Frankly—“ Wake raises his shoulders. “The good opinions of others do not bother me. I have known happiness. I have loved, more fiercely than most could even dream, and I have been loved in return. All those years ago—when I was locked up in that brig, those men coming in and out, I wondered for a moment if this was God’s punishment. I’ve never desired a woman, Mr. Moore. The thought has barely even occurred to me. So was this his vengeance against me? But I remembered, he made me thus. I cannot change my insides any more than the colour of my eyes, the hue of my skin. He made me, and so I honour him by being myself, and I honour myself. If I am not for myself, who will be?” Stroking his hand over the black lacquer, Wake remarks, “And for heaven’s sake, Moore—all the years you’ve been at sea, I cannot possibly be the first man you’ve met who only fucks other men.”

            _What do I say?_

 _Say little_.

            “You would not,” James says evenly.

            Wake nods, then notices Cu Sith baring her teeth. “None of that,” he commands, and she lowers her head.

            Still disbelieving, James says, “You took his name.”

            “I did. I was glad to. He was—my world. I never had any thought of leaving for another life, because it would mean leaving him behind. I never would. He had saved me, befriended me. He had loved me. Loved me free from any guilt or shame. I will apologize to _none_ for that or for him. I thought it a good thing to simply be loose from the expectations of others—but to be loved, as I was, without having to hide a thing, and to love in return—I have been blessed. My life has been strange, and sometimes it has been terrible. But for nearly ten years, he was mine and mine alone, as I remain his. Always.” Wake pauses. “Though he has been taken from me.”

            He sighs, and moves on. “For six years, the _Golem_ was a ghost. We did not work the same grounds over and over, as some do. No, our strategy was to be unexpected. We did not know what we would find. A risky proposition, but one which worked. We sailed from Northern Africa all the way into the Orient. Any ship that looked too large for us, the blacks would go below and I would say that I was the captain, and that we were transporting slaves. I’ve always been good at putting on a performance, after all, and I am proud to say that my quick thinking and capacity for the dramatics saved us from one or two difficult situations. But when the vessel looked to be right, off we would go, and I would go down to the captain’s cabin and read and wait to start stitching up the men after all the screaming had done. I’ve a skill for violence, and I knew the necessity for flying the red, given our crew, but I’d no desire to join in. I’ve no compunction about killing when I must, only I prefer not to, if I can get away with it.

            “We did well. We were quiet about what we did on the seas, and when we returned home, many of the men had families they had started. The others, they knew to keep their mouths shut. On the rare occasion that they didn’t, they did not live to tell anymore tales. It was part of our articles. Betray your brothers, and the penalty was death. We kept a close eye on one another. We were more at risk than most who chose this life. More than the gallows, the men feared ending up in chains again. Fear kept most of them in line, and a genuine…sense of brotherhood, I suppose, though I know you will roll your eyes at that. Henry, he was a good captain. He didn’t terrorize anyone. He didn’t have to. We worked as one or we would die. That was how we lived. So we slaughtered those who had the misfortune of crossing our paths, and were quite genial to one another aboard.

            “I used much of my time to continue my studies. Henry indulged me. Bought me books by the dozen.” Wake points across the room. “My violin. When we were not at sea, we had a home that was quite content. He went across to the mainland one day, and back he comes with—“ Wake reaches over with an affectionate smile, scratching Cu Sith behind the ear. “These two. Puppies they were then. I asked him what in the hell these poor animals with all their fur were doing in the heat, and he said he’d encountered a trader from Russia. Claimed they were half wolf. Well, I didn’t believe him then, they were so small. Little balls of fur really. But then they grew.” Wake leans over, giving Cu Sith’s head a kiss. “And kept growing, didn’t you, you lovely beast.

            “We would go out for a few weeks, then come home for months. It was all we needed. We weren’t looking for riches, for one final job that would make us all princes. We only wanted to make a living, doing exactly as we pleased. So that was what we did. At least—until we came across the _Dorset_. Merchant vessel. Not much bigger than we were. The usual fight, me in the cabin with a book and with this one by my side, and Henry comes in and says, dear, you ought to come have a look at this. So up I get and make my way across the ships, and down into the hold. And there—is so much silver there that I cannot believe my bloody eyes. I’d never seen so much in my life. I said, I suppose you think we shall retire now, and the cheeky bastard said, no, I think we can do better than this. We went home so low in the water it nearly reached our gun ports. Every man got his share, and to this day I’ve no idea what the stupid bastards were doing transporting that much coin without an escort. That was the best haul we ever had.

            “And then we had a run of bad luck. We hit a terrible storm a few months later. The main mast gave, and we lost ten men—no bodies, they just went over the sides. It took us a few weeks to limp back to port, and in the meantime, ship’s fever broke out—so _yes_ , Moore, I know what fucking ship’s fever looks like. Nearly half the crew was down with it, and we were back down to trying to run the ship, broken as she was, with fifty men. Finally, we get home, and then I came down sick. Not with the spotted fever. One of those tropical things that suddenly comes through and you’re shitting yourself endlessly and aching and ice cold one moment and hellishly warm the next. Henry had business on the mainland, but he stayed with me until I was through the worst of it.

            “Then the morning came when he left. He was only supposed to be gone three days. I meant to go with him, but he said, don’t be daft. Stay home. Listen to your husband like the good wife you are. I tried to hit him, but he just laughed at me. He went to kiss me, and I told him not to. Said I was worried about getting him sick. He went ahead and did it anyway. Thank God he did. At least I don’t have that regret hanging over me.”           

            Wake says nothing for a few moments. He turns the sword over in his hands.

            Then he returns to the book. “I’ve lost my place,” he says quietly. He flips through dozens of pages, avoiding James’ gaze.

            His fingers settle over some words halfway down the page. Wake looks at them, then says, “On the fourth day, I was understandably concerned, but not overly so. It was only a day. The fifth, I was quite anxious, and the morning of the sixth I began making my own plans to go to the mainland to find him. I was going down to the harbour when a small ship came in, and Burial got off. Henry was not with him, and the look on Burial’s face…I understood that Henry was dead.

            “It is…an odd thing. I thought he and I were so well matched that I would know the moment he died. I would feel it. But I didn’t. Perhaps that is what convinced me more than anything that there may be no God at all. No higher power guiding our hands, laying out our destiny. If there was, I would have known he was dead. I am sure of this.

            “When they were about to come home, a man walked into Henry on the pier. An Englishman. It was crowded. An accident. But the man started to scream at Henry. Called him an animal and a nigger, wanted to know where his master was. Henry—as I have said, he could be very even tempered. He always was with me. But there was a thing he could not abide. He was a free man, and he insisted on being treated as one. As well he should have been. So he punched the man square in the face. Then all hell broke loose. There’s half a dozen man coming after Henry, and he pulls his sword and runs one through, and there’s _more_ men, and he turned to Burial and told him to run. Told him to make sure I was safe. Burial wouldn’t go, so Henry hit him too. I could see the bruise on Burial’s face when he told me the story. He was in tears when he told me, he was so ashamed that he had left Henry there alone.

            “It turned out that the Englishman was Edmund Travers. A very wealthy man who was attempting to make a deal with the Mughals. They’re a failing empire, and they need coin. So when Travers demanded that Henry be taken care of, he was. Swiftly. Within the day, and without benefit of trial. They assumed he was a pirate because of how he looked, and his manner, and so he was. They hung him. I am told that he kept saying the same words over again. I presume because he knew that no one would understand what he was saying, and he wanted them to remember the sounds, so that when I asked what he said, they would at least know the sound of it. He went to the gallows saying the same words again and again. Ani ohev otcha.” Wake winces, and murmurs, “It means, I love you, in Hebrew.”

            He is unable to speak a moment. He gazes down at the floor, his mouth set in a thin line.

            Then he swallows, inhaling sharply, and continues.

            “There was naught they could do to keep me going to the mainland. I had to get his body. I had to get something. The others didn’t bother telling me it was a terrible idea. They knew the depth of my feeling for Henry. So Burial and Joseph and I went across the strait to the mainland, and we went to where they display the pirates’ bodies. He was in a gibbet. Nothing I could do to get him out. Middle of a crowded square, for people to look at him. To laugh, and throw things. Joseph, he tried to tell me there was nothing we could do, but I meant to have a piece of him. I’d come knowing that it would be unlikely that we could take the body, though I had hoped it would be so. Instead, I told Burial to help me up. He wanted to argue, but he could see I was in a mood not to. So he lifted me until I could climb onto the gibbet. People stopped, looking at me, wondering what in the hell I was doing. I reached in, and he was—grey. We all go that shade of grey when we die, no matter what colour we were to start with. But I took his hand, and I got his ring.”

            Wake turns over his right hand. The ring on his thumb is identical to that on his left. Only larger.

            “When I came down, a man was running over, screaming at me. I can’t even remember what he looked like. I’d cut his throat before I even realized it. I don’t really remember much of our journey home.”

            Wake looks thoughtful. “It would have been easy to just kill Travers then. That is what most would have done. An eye for an eye. Simple. Straight forward. But to me, he had not just…killed someone. He _took_ —“ The light in Wake’s eyes goes murderous, and James can see what fueled him. He recognizes it. Voice tight, Wake says, “He took from me what was most dear. He did not just take a man’s life. That man didn’t even think about what he was doing—Henry meant so little to him. It never even occurred to him that Henry was human, that he was _loved_ , that he meant something. It would have been easy to kill him. But I didn’t want him to die. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to know what he had done in his ignorance, and to live with the knowledge. I wanted him to hurt—the way _I_ hurt.”

            Realizing how tightly he is gripping his sword, Wake lets go. He sighs, and puts the sword back beside the chair. “I suppose if you were going to kill me, you would have done it when I said I married a negro, and a man at that.” Wake rubs his hands together. “I put my affairs in order. I made sure to put my influence behind Burial McCoy as captain, and he was elected thus. I packed up my things, left the house to Cribs and his wife and their new family. Then I left, with my books and my tools and my money, and set out for vengeance. And as far as I know, the _Golem_ could still be sailing the Indian Sea, manned by blacks and Jews, a ghost amongst peacocks.

            “I tracked Travers for a year. I knew who he did business with. I knew what kind of whores he preferred. I knew where he called home. I learned what the most important thing in this whole world was to him, and once I knew that, I set to work.

            “He had four sons. The eldest was the same age as I. He lived in New York. So that was where I went. He had a new wife, but they did not yet have children. I was able to keep that line uncrossed. Still, I slaughtered them both. I left the man’s head a stick outside their home, and waited for the news to reach Travers.

            “He did as I expected. When he received the news, he went home, which was Newport. A town you can imagine that I was quite comfortable in. His eldest had been the product of his first marriage. His other three sons were between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. I had been hiding in his home, in the attic, for two weeks by then. Learning the comings and goings of the house. Preparing. Every night, I remembered how happy I had been. What my life had been, and what he took from me.

            “The night he arrived, I heard them all weeping downstairs, and I was glad for it. I waited three days, so that they would all feel comfortable. Then I came down through the kitchen in the middle of the night, and forced all the slaves into the cellar at the point of my blade. I locked them in, and then I went about waking the Travers family, one by one. A hand over their mouth, and my sword at their throat. I bade them get up, and I gagged them, and tied their hands behind their backs. I am not good with sailing, but I know my knots rather well. I led them downstairs, and then tied them in such a manner that they were connected by neck to ankle, so that any strain would suffocate them.

            “I saved Travers himself for last. He was most indignant upon being woken, but I told him that I had his entire family tied up downstairs, and I would do them grievous harm if he did not cooperate. He did not want to cooperate, so I was forced to beat him a little to settle him down, and managed to get at least a gag into his mouth and his hands behind his back.         

            “When I took him downstairs, and he saw his sons and his wife, he began to struggle again. I shoved him into a chair and told him that if he didn’t do as he was told, I would start cutting off limbs. I was able to tie him by both his arms and legs to the chair. That being taken care of, I took my sword and cut off his wife’s head with one blow.

            “They understood then that they were all going to die. The men were furious and frightened—the youngest one was weeping. I asked if Travers knew why he deserved this. All he could do was shake his head. I told him that he had killed the only man I cared about in the world. He had killed Henry Wake, and I had loved him, and I would now have my revenge upon him. So I did.

            “I took an hour, killing his sons. Any time it looked like the blood was too much, I just tied off a tourniquet. I didn’t have to keep them alive long. Just enough that it would haunt him. I knew all about Travers. How proud he was of his sons. How he had bragged about his fucking _legacy_. It was what he cared most about. I took it from him. I made sure his sons suffered. I wanted him to feel their suffering. I wanted him to feel how I felt. Finally, their bodies could bear no more, and I do not take much joy in the killing of others. I took great joy in his pain, though. So I took their heads off, one by one, and Travers was as destroyed as I had hoped. Red and wet with tears. He’d pissed himself. He thought I meant to kill him next. That was never my intention. Instead, I castrated him. No more sons. No legacy. That was my revenge. I left him there like that, and that is how I came to the colonies.”

            Wake shrugs, picking up his glass. He has a drink, then continues, as if he barely feels the story he has just related. “Newport is a good place to hide, if you’ve money and know the right things to say. I’d been a pirate far longer than most of the men I encountered. They sheltered me, and then got me into the hands of other Jews. Pirates will sell you out for enough money, but Jews won’t. I said I needed a quiet place to retire to, and someone said I ought to come see Martha Richards, in Siddeston. I made the journey, and arrived in Siddeston close to four years now.

            “I had no plan. The only imperative had been to seek revenge upon Travers. That done—I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with myself. There was nothing. I’d thought—I’d thought I would spend the rest of my life with Henry, but that turned out not to be the case. Then I focused entirely on Travers. I destroyed the man from the inside. What was I supposed to do then? I was working on the basic instinct to survive and nothing more.

            “I stayed with Martha a month. She was very good to me. She wasn’t overly fond of the fact that I’d married a man, but I think it would be far more surprising if she had been. She did not hold it against me. She had carried out her own revenges over the years. Those who had wronged her. She understood from where I came. She asked me what I wanted to do, and I said I didn’t know. She asked what I had wanted to do once, and I said, not even really thinking about it, physician, surgeon, apothecary. I was an excellent surgeon, and I’d learned so much in my travels. It was all I was good at. That and studying, or playing my violin, and I certainly wasn’t going to find much work in that out in the middle of New Hampshire. But then she said to me, you need to atone. I said, no I bloody don’t. She said that I did, if I wanted to put the golem to rest. That I had to be a person again, and not a monster. I didn’t even know where to begin.

            “She said that there was an opening for someone with medical training, out in The Edge. I said that sounded like the kind of place I should be exiled to. She said it wasn’t an exile. That it would be a place to become a person again. I didn’t know if I wanted that, but I didn’t know what else I wanted, so I did as she said.

            “And so I came here. At first, it was just a place to—hide. I’d not told Travers my name, so I don’t know how he would track me to here. But also to—hide from all that had happened. I was tired, Mr. Moore. Exceedingly tired. I didn’t care about being apothecary to these people, or being a part of their town. I was just here to pass the time until I could come up with something better.

            “Only a very peculiar thing happened. It had been over fifteen years since I last lived among regular people instead of pirates. At first it was awkward, and I had to pretend to be someone who could…belong here. I have enough money to carry me through to the end of my days. So I courted favours by not charging money, but instead bartering for goods, services. That endeared me to many people around here. They welcomed me. At the beginning, I did not think I would be here long, so I told a few lies of omission. No one even suspects I’m a Jew, which I find does bother me sometimes. I do not like to hide it, because it is an intrinsic part of me, even if the religion aspect holds little sway for me any longer. I said I was a widower, which is true, and said that I did not like to talk about it, because it pained me too much. That is also true. They learned that I was private, and left me alone. They learned that I could be a person relied upon to keep secrets, and so they trusted me.

            “Then one day I woke up and realized…I was a part of the town. It had happened so gradually that I did not notice it happen. I felt about them the way I had about my crewmates. That was terrifying. The thought that I might—have something important enough to me that I was capable of losing. I could have run, but I’m not one for running. I like it here. I like these people, and their secrets, and their lies. I like their small kindnesses, and their superstitions, and I like knowing what they don’t. They are my crew now. I will take care of them. And so I have, these three and a half years. This is where I see myself remaining, for as long as I can. Perhaps not forever, because one learns that such a thing likely does not exist. But for as long as I am able, this will be my home.”

            Wake sits back, letting out a long breath. “And that, sir, is the tale of Ezra Wake.”

            They are quiet for several beats.

            It is uncanny. They share so much in common. Perhaps more than anyone James has ever met, he understands this man.

            “Do you have any questions, sir? You asked for my story, and I do not want to be remiss in overlooking something.”

            He has questions, yes. Many. But they are not the type of thing one just asks. Even after a story like this has been told. Even when the listener understands.

            “One,” James replies.

            “Of course.”

            “What is a golem?”

            Wake smiles a little at that. “Ezra Wake is a golem. And Captain Flint is a golem.” He holds his cup near to his chest and explains, “The golem is a creature from Jewish myth. It is a being made from clay or mud, and imbued with spirit through rituals and incantations. It bends to the creator’s will, and is near indestructible. It can protect—or it can do terrible, _terrible_ deeds. It depends on the man who has made it. When its purpose is complete, it is returned to the dust it came from.”

            “Have you returned the golem to dust?”

            “You’ve seen me with my blade, sir. I think you know the answer. And yourself?”

            James thinks about it, then says, “I am unsure.”

            Wake nods, and they sit there a while longer, until James makes his farewell, and walks home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your kudos and comments are appreciated and treasured.


	13. Black Sheep

_January 21, 1721_

_Fraser informed me of an unfortunate task I shall have to perform tomorrow. I am expected to be at prayer with everyone else in town to say thanks for the sparing of the Smithe child and Wake._

_I protested that I was no religious man, and he reminded me that few in the town are. Seeing as to the circumstances, however, we all are expected to attend. He informed me that my absence would be most curious and remarked upon given my involvement. It is a thing of consternation, that to be left alone, I must interact with the townsfolk to a certain extent._

_I’ve not been to prayers here, nor any at all, for over fifteen years. It will simply be a thing to endure._

 

He eyes the meeting house with exasperation and wariness. He can hear the voices inside. The whole town. Nearly fifty people, himself included.

            It is obvious that he is the last to arrive. He timed it that way, leaving on foot instead of atop Samson. If anyone asks, he will say that the horse did not seem well, and so at the last moment he was forced to walk.

            James squints, looking around the otherwise empty town, covered in a fresh layer of snow. It is ridiculous. Bowing to convention like this. It is not the man he is. Was. He hardly knows these days.

            Exhaling a visible breath, he walks up the steps. With a final shake of the head, he opens the door and steps inside as quietly as possible.

            His attempts to be unobtrusive are for naught, because everyone turns to look. Even the parson stops speaking. The most unbelievable part about the moment is how everyone is smiling. They are smiling— _at_ him. James has no idea how to respond, and so he stays very still.

            The parson, who looks sober for the first time since James met him, smiles and says, “And here is the man in question. Please, Mr. Moore, have a seat.”

            Looking around cautiously, James sits upon the back bench, on the left hand side. People are still casting him affectionate glances.

            He looks across the way, and finds Wake, sitting casually on the other bench closest to the door. He does not acknowledge James’ gaze, merely looks forward at the parson.

            “We shall continue,” says the parson, laying his hands on either side of his bible. He clears his throat, then tries to straighten his shoulders. “But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him….”

            James rolls his eyes. It happens before he can stop himself. Good Christ. They cannot be serious. He did not make the ride to Siddeston for any reason other than pure, unadulterated self-interest. These people are deluding themselves if they think that anyone would take the journey as fast as he had without some greater motivation.

            _Behave yourself._ Miranda. Of course.

            He does not have to believe a word out of the parson’s mouth. He just has to sit here, and listen, for the sake of appearances. Wake has done it for four years. James can manage a half hour. An hour, at the _most_. He folds his hands together, and faintly hears the parson say, “Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves?”

            Miranda would be very proud, and perhaps a little amused, at how he keeps himself still and does not roll his eyes again. He even nods his head tightly when the parson points out his ride to Siddeston, and the miraculous recovery of both Rebecca Smithe and Ezra Wake. James keeps his hands folded together, and lists all the knots that he knows.

            When the parson leads them in a hymn, James grimaces. He is not one for singing. There must be limits to his hypocrisy. There must.

            He hears Wake’s voice amongst the rest, steady and clear. “Know ye that the Lord is God.” James looks over at him. Even though Wake continues to look at the parson, it as though he can feel James’ gaze, and there’s a slight upturn to his mouth as he sings, “It is he that hath made us, and not ourselves.”

            James snorts, very softly, and watches the rest of the congregation. As they sing about being sheep, he thinks, _you have no bloody idea_.

 

He is the first out of the building once the parson dismisses them. He is exceedingly grateful for the cool air. The longer he sat there, the more uncomfortable and displeased he became, the heavier his cloak seemed. It is one thing to think, _Nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him, for we are made for co-operation,_ and another entirely to have to sit through an hour’s worth of ridiculous Bible verses and hymns, surrounded by people who seem to think him a hero of some kind for fetching medicine from Siddeston.

            He is no hero. Never has been. Never will be. He did the deed for selfish reasons. He did.

            James puts as much distance between himself and the meeting house as he can, not caring how odd it looks. He came, as was requested. Now he will go.

            A small voice startles him by calling, “Mr. Moore! Mr. Moore!”

            He cannot remember the last time a child called for him. Has one ever? James turns in confusion.

            He looks down to find Rebecca Smithe running after him across the snow. Other people are emerging from the meeting house. Hell—he cannot exactly turn his back on a child, can he.

            She comes to stop in front of him, and gazes up at him with large green eyes. “Yes?” James says, brows arched.

            “Thank you, sir,” she says, and holds out her hand.

            It is so bold a gesture coming from so small a creature that he smiles. He thinks a moment, then takes her hand, and gives it two careful shakes. “A pleasure, miss.” When he lets her go, she drops down on her heels, smiling widely.

            Her mother has run after her. She wraps her arms around Rebecca’s neck, pulling her against her skirt, and nods to James without meeting his eyes. “We owe you a great deal, sir.”

            “No,” he says, ill at the thought of these people, any of these people thinking they are indebted to him. “I only did what Mr. Wake asked of me. If you wish to relay your gratitude, he is the appropriate party—“

            “He’s being rather modest, isn’t he, Milly,” Wake says, coming up fast. He claps James on the arm, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “As we agreed, Mr. Moore, I’ve the time now if you’d like--?”

            James feels the slightest of pressure on his arm, Wake trying to turn him around. “Of course,” he says.

            “Excuse us. Good day, ladies.” Wake gives James the barest push before letting him go. They get a few feet before Wake says under his breath, “Unless you care to be inundated with dinner invitations, I suggest you walk quickly.”

            James does not bother looking over his shoulder. That would simply give him away. He hears Fraser call, “Mr. Wake, Mr. Moore!”

            Wake turns, walking backwards with a smile. “Apologies, Alastair! Mr. Moore and I have a prior appointment to keep.” He pivots again, murmuring, “Where’s your horse?”

            “Left it at home. Poor strategy,” James remarks bitterly. “I thought about an excuse for being late, and not about a swift escape.”

            “Best to always keep both in mind.” Wake is guiding them to his shop, where Kelpie is tied up outside. Untying her, Wake takes her by the reins and waves back at the others. Conversationally, he says, “Once we’ve passed the buildings, sir, you’ll be free of me. Do not concern yourself about it.”

            James does not reply. They walk side by side, Wake leading Kelpie by the reins.

            James can feel the pressure of the others removed from him the further he gets from the meeting house. His shoulders untighten, and the grimace that was fixed on his face for the last hour begins to recede.

            Incredible. That he should face mutiny, murder, the gallows, entire nations, and not bow his head. A little over forty people and he feels as though he has skirted a murderous storm for hours, only to watch it miraculously clear. These are just normal people. Useless, unextraordinary people, in the middle of nowhere. Why should they vex him so?

            They walk past the edge of town, and James says abruptly, “How do you stand it?”

            In surprise, Wake blinks at him a few times. He glances back over his shoulder. “Them?”

            Shaking his head, unable to keep himself bottled up a moment longer, James exclaims, “Blind, ridiculous sheep, the lot of them. Not a clue what the world is like, what the truth could even look like—singing their bloody hymns—how in fuck does a man bear it?”

            He looks to Wake, who is speechless.

            “What?” James snaps.

            Wake is quick to say, “I apologize, sir. Ah—well—“ He shrugs, wrapping the reins around his hand. “Any advice I gave you would be conjecture, I’m afraid. You and I are of a very different kind.” James scowls, frustrated. Wake glances at him, then speaks. “I was taught from a young age to hide who I am. It is a skill that comes naturally to me. You—have the curse of honesty, I’m afraid.”

            James lets out a resounding bark. He thinks of all the lies he has told over the years. The endless lies he told his crew. “You’d be the first to claim it.”

            “You’ve never had to lie about what you are. I assume you’ve been dishonest as hell and told many mistruths. A man does not reach your station on honesty. But you seem the kind who has difficulty hiding who he is from others.”

            “If you want honesty, I should tell you that I despise when you think you know everything, just from looking at a man.”

            With a crooked smile, Wake replies, “It would not bother you so if I wasn’t correct most of the time.” James shakes his head, wishing he had not opened his mouth. “You’re thinking about them the wrong way. You think that every person in there is exactly what they claim to be. They’re not sheep, they’re humans. That means they hide themselves, just like you are. They’ve only more practice at it.”

            “And you—singing hymns like a good Christian.”

            “Moore, the psalms are from the Tanakh—the Hebrew bible. My people knew those words some years earlier than our neighbours’ kind.”

            “Do you always have a response for _everything_?”

            “Yes,” Wake says, and James growls. “I’ll assume you’ve not lived in—civilization for some years.”

            “Civilization,” James says acidly. “This is civilization.”

            “Those who do not share or have ever profited off our former profession. Their ways are different, but they’re still people. They wear masks, just as we do. They all have their stories. Just because they haven’t been as exciting as yours does not mean they are less than you. You’re no better than these people.” Wake pauses, then comments, “We are worse, of course. But we’re not so different from them. Not truly. Try and see them as individuals instead of a herd.”

            “They act like a herd. All sitting there, row upon row.”

            Letting out a laugh, Wake says, “Moore—they aren’t in there every Sunday. Why do you think the poor parson is so miserable? He’s a shepherd with no flock. They come at holidays and on special occasions. They came together because they are glad. Because Rebecca is alive, and I’m alive, and because someone did us a kindness.”

            James insists, “I did no such thing—“

            “But you _did_ ,” Wake says, voice going firm. “Do you know, it occurred to me that you might not go? That maybe you’d see how ill I was, and bet on me dying. My doing so would have cleared an obstacle for you. Even if you went, I thought it entirely possible that you would tarry. That you would spend longer than was needed, so that I would die, and Rebecca would be sacrificed in the process. You did neither. You took the journey in half the time it takes a rider in the _summer_. You did a good thing, Moore. The world does not end because you are not an evil man every moment of the day.”

            Uncomfortable, James pulls his cloak tighter.

            Curious, Wake asks, “Why did you? You’ve shown me nothing but disdain since your arrival, and I doubt you did it for Rebecca’s sake. So why?”

            James does not answer for a long moment. Then he mutters, “Like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of upper and lower teeth.”

He startles when Wake continues, perplexed, “To act against one another then is contrary to nature; and it is acting against one another to be vexed and turn away.”

They look at one another as they walk for a few steps, James at Wake’s black eyes, and Wake at James’ green. It is as though they are taking the measure of one another again, even after having met months before.

            James is the first to look away, down the road with the horse’s tracks and his own coming the one way in fresh snow. “I should not be surprised to find you a stoic,” Wake comments. He sounds remarkably somber for once.

            “It’s just a phrase,” James murmurs.

            “Of course.”

            He knows Wake does not believe that, and could punch himself in the face for revealing anything of himself. That book—it is his. His and Thomas’. It is a secret to be kept.

            “I am afraid I can only recommend patience.” When James looks over, Wake explains, “The prescription to your complaint. Patience. See them as people, and not as impediment. You’ve no scheme here, no plotting to do. These people are not obstacles in your path. They are just people, and will treat you as such. It is a thing to first weather, and eventually it will be second nature. If you stay long enough for such an occurrence.”

            “Counting on me leaving, are you?”

            “No, actually. You’ve put me in rather a delicate position, haven’t you. If you left here, I’ve no idea who you could tell about me. It is in my best interest to keep you here.”

            “Do you not think that you could stop me—if you knew my intention was to go?”

            Wake smirks. “You flatter me, sir.”

            “Enough lying, Wake. Do you think you could take me? If it came to swords?”

            Considering it, Wake says, “Swords—yes. I have few equals. If you disarmed me, though, I’ve no doubt you would bash my head in with your bare hands.” He looks at James askance. “Do you mean to do so now, sir? It would be a terrible blow for our neighbours, saying their prayers for you on the lord’s day, only for you to murder me within the hour.”

            James simply shakes his head at the sky.

            They are coming up to the turn off to Wake’s property. Wake says, “Well—if your intent is not to murder me, then—“

            “What do you know about me?”

            They stop.

            James watches Wake, looking for any dissembling, any hint that the man is going to lie or hold back. He has wanted to know for months, and now he will know.

            Wake gazes back, and Kelpie bumps her nose into his shoulder. He reaches back, patting her, and says, “You will have to be more specific, Mr. Moore.”

            Glancing away, James specifies, “What do you know about Flint?”

            After a pause, Wake nods once, then gives Kelpie a slap to the rump. “Go on home.” She startles, then begins to trot down the lane on her own. Wake turns, stepping into the snow, and brushes off a stump that James had noticed before the snow fall. Sitting upon it, Wake squints up at him. “I’ve gone over it many times since your arrival, trying to remember what I could about you. Of course, it’s all stories, so I’ve no idea what might be true and what might be false. But this is what I’ve heard.

            “The first I heard your name, I believe it was ’09. We were off the coast of Angola, picking up a man named Thomas Dryden. Some of the men called him Stumps. Not because he had any, but because he was so partial to making them on other men. He was an old friend of Captain Redding, and he had just come from the West Indies. We had heard rumor of a man outdoing all the rest for cunning, but we had no names, and tales change in the telling across an ocean. But Stumps, he had seen you, seen the _Walrus_. It was just after—“ Wake looks away into the trees, brows furrowing. “Forgive me. My memory is prodigious, but every so often a thing slips—ah. There it is.” He gazes up at Moore, the words he says almost a question. “ _Maria Aleyne_.”

            James does not react. Visibly, at least. Inside, he feels a split, down the center. Like his organs and bones are peeling off to opposite sides.

            “Your crew was displeased at the scant haul they had made after so many months tracking her, as I recall. But they were all so terrified of you that none dared say a thing to your face. Stumps spoke to one of your men. He said that some of the passengers aboard the vessel had been killed in a way that was excessive, and they suspected you had done it—at the behest of a woman, I believe? He seemed to think there was a witch that controlled you. Well, I do not believe in witches, sir, so you know what I mean when I say that stories change in the telling and according to the intelligence of the person relating the tale. Stumps sought you out. Not to speak to you, just to get a good look at you, so he’d know not to cross you if ever you met. He had heard about Captain Flint the past few years—how you came from nowhere, and almost immediately took over a vessel, how you were peerless as a navigator and pirate. How was it that he described you to me?”

            Wake’s face changes, looking older somehow, his voice pitching upwards. “He’s taller than me by a hand, lads,” he says in a Cornish accent. “Hair red as the devil’s own, and eyes afire to match. Dead inside, you can see it just by looking at him, dead as stone. Red hair on his chin shaped like Lucifer’s, boys, I swear it.” Wake relaxes into his usual self, raising his shoulders. “Redding heard him out and said, I suppose we shall avoid men of red hair, then, if the devil walks amongst us.”

            “Is that how you knew who I was?” James asks, still deciding if he should be offended or not. “Dead inside, looking like Satan himself?”

            Wake shakes his head a single time. “I don’t know that a man can be dead inside _and_ alight with fire. Frankly, I think you lean towards the latter. Stories about you and the _Walrus_ would come across the sea. Impossible deeds done by an impossibly ruthless pirate. That you’d appeared from nowhere, with no past, and you were dead set on securing Nassau as a haven for our kind. The stories would go between extremes. That you were going to be the death of us all, or you’d save us from England and Spain and the rest of them. It was like children’s stories, only it was grown men telling them to one another. We were all resolved to stay as far from you and the West Indies as possible. You all sounded like mad men caught up in a crusade instead of men trying to make a living.

            “We heard about Charles Town, and were doubly resolved to avoid you. The first we heard of it, it was that you’d gone insane and instead of plundering, you’d destroyed the city from nothing but malice. A year later, though, when I was in Newport, after I’d carried out my own schemes, I heard perhaps more accurate accounts from those who had been in closer contact with you. They said you’d gone to Charles Town to try and make an accord with England, via the governor there, to secure Nassau’s status as a haven for men who choose to be free. I was told the governor betrayed you. I also heard there was a woman involved, and that they propped up her corpse in the square while you were being tried for piracy.” Wake pauses, then says, “From your face, I see that what I say upsets you, but you asked that I tell you what I know. Shall I continue?”

            Jaw locked, James nods tersely.

            “I heard that Charles Vane of all people helped save you from the noose, and that once you escaped, you ordered that the cannons be fired upon the town. That it be destroyed. And ever since, you had been killing every single magistrate who dared hang a pirate, and slaughtering every member of his majesty’s service that you crossed. I thought, good on you, and—“ Wake thumbs over his shoulder. “That is about the time I left for here.

            “After that, I cannot say that I knew much. Twice a year I make the journey to Portsmouth, and I get papers and books and hear all the idle gossip down at the docks. I was told you had killed Hornigold, and continued your crusade for Nassau. I thought it was ridiculous, but I’ve lived an entirely ridiculous life, so I am not precisely in a position to judge. Then a little over a year ago, I was told your crew had mutinied. Turned tail, left you behind in the Indies to continue your quest. Myself, I thought, well, that’s the end of Captain Flint. A few months after that, I was told that the Spanish had attacked Nassau, and were repelled by the governor and the citizens. That they had banded behind him. That Nassau was now assuredly English, and a nest for pirates no longer.”

            It is at once as bad as he feared and not terrible as it could have been. Assuming, that is, that Wake is telling the truth. Somehow James feels like he is, but that could be a truly wretched assumption. And it still leaves one question unanswered.

            “But how did you know who I was?”

            With a laugh, Wake admits, “I didn’t. The day you came into town, I was happily ensconced in my shop, talking to Esther Thompson about her carbuncle, when Tess O’Donnell came running in, said she had to speak to me right away. She’s the one who had seen you before, not I.”

            “When?”

            “She and her husband and their children, they had lived in Jamaica but decided they were better suited for northern climes. The _Walrus_ boarded the ship they were on, took damn near everything they owned. Honestly, Moore, given your reputation it seems beneath you, but they were early days for you, I suppose. 1706? She was terrified, came straight to me.”

            “Why you? Does she know about you?”

            “No. God no. No one here save you knows my history. But the parson doesn’t keep the townspeople’s secrets. I do. She knew that if anyone could keep an eye on you, make sure you weren’t about to kill us all, it would be me. I’d done her a favour, and she knew I was capable.”

            “Allow me to guess. Robert Senior?”

            “I said I’d tell you my story, Moore, not everyone else’s. I’m not much good to everyone if I tell their secrets to the first person that asks. Let us simply say that she trusted I could manage you. I thought maybe she was mistaken. It had been a long time. Near fifteen years. So I caught sight of you out the window, and saw you dressed all in black—looking like a fucking _pirate_ —and knew you were that at least. When I came to your home with the clothes, that’s when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

            “How?”

            “You carry yourself the way the famous captains always do. Superior. Unable to believe that anyone’s opinion save yours could be correct. I could see it in the way you held yourself, the way you spoke, even the way you looked at me. Unbelievable, really. That the two of us should end up neighbours, when I used to do all I could to keep seas and oceans between us.”

            James shakes his head. “It makes no sense.”

            “What doesn’t?”

            “You. Killing all four of them back in October. For my benefit.”

            Wake’s eyes go cold. For a moment, he sits there, gazing at James with lips pressed tightly together. “You say that to me. A man who’d burn down a town merely because a magistrate hung a pirate? I signed my articles, sir, and I’ve kept to them these many years. You’re my brother by profession, even if your superior attitude and—frankly infuriating inability to keep out of sight at the only moment you had to, at all, made me want to let them take you. But I wouldn’t have it. Not in my town. No bloody Englishman is going to come into _my_ town and walk out with the intention of putting you in a noose. Three officers—they could send two dozen. A hundred. I’d cut out their hearts before I ever let them lay a hand on my brethren. I’ve a great many flaws, sir, but disloyalty is not one of them.”

            For the first time, Wake looks truly offended. He picks himself up off the stump, brushing snow from his coat, and starts down the lane.

            Stopping, he says, “I assume you’ll be to see the Hendersons to fetch your horse. If you wouldn’t mind extending my greetings to them and Martha, I’d be most obliged. Good day, sir.” Wake walks away, head high.

            James stands there, thinking that at least one thing is clear.

            That man is a fucking _mystery_.


	14. Aleph, Mem, Tav

Riding through the unfamiliar buildings, this time not having to pound randomly on people’s doors, James pats Samson’s neck. “Good,” he murmurs. The horse huffs, and continues onwards.

            He spent the last night asleep in the woods, wrapped in his fur blanket, Samson over him. He got more sleep than he expected, but it was the first time he ever slept in so silent, cold a place. It was an eerie thing, truly, to fall asleep not knowing what kind of large animal might come out of the night. When he fell asleep in the forests of the Indies, the worst he could expect was a boar. In these woods—bears maybe. Wolves? He held his sword in hand as he slept.

            The journey to Siddeston was completely uneventful. He took two days this time, so as not to strain Samson any further. Robert O’Donnell had done all he could to mend the exhausted animal, and the sooner James returns the creature, the sooner he will have his own back. There was no racing, no trying to outrun the limited sun. Just silence, and the trees, and the snow.

            And much time to think.

            There is candle light coming from behind the shutters of Richards’ house. James brings Samson to a halt, the both of them slumping ever so slightly with relief. James dismounts, then takes the time to pet Samson’s nose.

            “You are a fine, fine animal,” he says. The horse turns tiredly into his touch. “Thank you.”

            With a pat to his side, James begins unfastening his things. His eyes fall on the leather pouch hanging from the saddle.

            It was tied around Samson’s neck yesterday morning when he went to saddle him. A note was attached, reading, ‘If it would not be too great an inconvenience, I would be most appreciative if you would relay this to Mrs. Richards. I wish you a good journey.’ The thing was about five pounds, clacking in his hands.

            James had not bothered opening it. Let Wake keep his secrets. He is tired of prying.

            He puts his things over his shoulder, turning when the door opens. Richards stands in the doorway, shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “Welcome back,” she says. “I’ll assume everyone lived?” He nods, and she climbs into some boots that are far too large for her. She comes out of the house, favouring her left leg. Limping next door, she summons Mr. Henderson, who comes to take Samson. The man looks suspiciously at James, immediately beginning to inspect Samson for injury. Richards beckons for James to follow her inside.

            “My horse?” James asks, closing the door behind himself.

            “Fine. My son in law is quite good at what he does.”

            Before anything else, James holds out the bag. “Mr. Wake bade me give you this.”

            Richards takes it, frowning at the sound it makes. James begins to take off his winter things, pushing off his boots. He has just finished when Richards upturns the bag over the table.

            James says, “You must be bloody _joking_.”

            Richards is cackling. The bag was filled with nothing but rounded stones and a scroll of paper. Richards brushes her spindly fingers over the stones, a smile curving through her wrinkles. “Oh, Ezra,” she laughs. She glances at James, and that seems to amuse her more. “You wouldn’t understand.”

            “Do you care to explain to me why I carried nothing but rocks all the way from The Edge?”

            Selecting a stone, a little smaller than the palm of her hand, Richards studies it. “He sends me a stone each time. To place on my husband’s grave. Out of respect to him. No one else does that. Sweet boy. Look at how many he has sent this time.”

            James asks, “Is that a Jewish custom?”

            She turns the stone over in her hand, not looking at him. “It is,” she says after a moment. She narrows her eyes at him. “He must have been quite delirious indeed. I doubt he trusted you enough to tell you on his own.”

            “We had an agreement.”

            “Hmm.” She nods towards the same bedroom he slept in before. “You can stay in there. I’ll put together a plate for you.”

            He wonders if she might poison it.

 

“This is very peculiar.”

            James looks up from his second bowl of soup. He eats with one arm around the bowl, face down low to it. As if any moment it may be stolen. He knows what it makes him look like, but he is cold and hungry, and to hell with etiquette. He grunts a, “Hm?”

            Richards sits across from him, her hands keeping the rolled letter flat on the table. “Ezra’s letter.”

            “What’s peculiar about it?”

            She uses stones to pin the letter down, then lifts her magnifying glass. Her index finger traces under the words as she reads right to left. “Dear Machla. Once again you have saved me, and I have so very little to repay you with, save my unending respect. I would have died without your remedy, I believe, and have already begun in earnest to study the instructions you sent regarding its manufacture. You do, however, have a perverse sense of humor. You know that I do not fear death, and would welcome it. Stop saving me, old woman.” She shakes her head, saying offhandedly to James, “That is not the peculiar part. From the moment I met him, Ezra’s been half in this world and half out, on the possibility that someone waits for him on the other side. This, though—is what strikes me as strange. Machla, I must ask your advice about Mr. Moore.”

            James raises his head, gazing at her straight on.

            Richards reads, “As you surmised, he and I shared an occupation. I wish to assure you, though, that I do not think him the danger you fear. I do not see him sharing our secrets with the outside world, no matter the torment put to him, lest someone in the village were to betray him. I have done what I can to engender good feeling toward him so that this is not the case. He in fact cared for me in my illness when all others feared to come near me, the people who I have saved from death several times over. He risked himself for my safety, and I have not the faintest idea why. He claimed that it was so that I would be in his debt, and in return requested I tell him the story of my life. I obliged, and was truthful, which you will think a terrible foolishness, but I would not deny the man who had saved me, as much as you had with your remedy.” Richards looks at James and asks, “You know _everything_ about Ezra?”

            Spooning more soup into his mouth, James replies, “If you’re asking if I know that he was Mrs. Wake, then yes.”

            Richards lets out a hiss, muttering in what James presumes is Hebrew, before continuing. “The advice I ask for is this: when I first came to you, how did you begin to erase the aleph from my forehead? The monster in me lives still, but has quieted over the years. His is still a torment, and while his arrogance irritates me to no end I cannot help but recognize in him what was so terrible in myself. I remember what it was to live that way, and do not care to see it in another, particularly one who saved my life. I have little problem relieving those in the village, no matter their complaint, but I have no idea where to start with someone so similar to myself. He cannot even see he did me a kindness, will not admit it, much as I was loathe to all those years ago. I had you to guide me, but I am at a loss. If you would speak to him, perhaps it would help him, or if you had words of guidance for me, they would be most appreciated. I know you owe me no favours, but I ask as a friend.” She shrugs, and says, “Then there’s the usual bit asking after myself and the family, him sending his love and such.”

            With a frown, Richards puts down the glass and crosses her arms on the table, studying James.

            He says nothing, eating his soup.

            “It is a rarity that Ezra asks me for anything. And this is certainly the first time that he has ever asked me for advice concerning a person. I see why he is perplexed, though. I certainly am, considering that you cared for him in his sickness.”

            Shaking his head, James mutters, “It was an opportunity to search his house.”

            “Oh, shut up. Even for you, that is a weak excuse, young man.” Richards sits back, then groans. She rubs her hand over her thigh. “I took a fall the other day. Lucky I did not break my hip. But time…time claims us all.” Richards tilts her head. “What are we to do with you, Mr. Moore?”

            “Nothing. There is nothing that needs to be done about me.”

            “Ezra is sentimental,” Richards says, and James would like to dispel that. He can think of three decapitated red coats who would argue with her as well. “I see that you want to disagree, but I have known him longer than you. He cares for those people. I don’t care about the people here. They are a way to make my living. I love my daughter, I love my son in law, I love my son and his wife and their children. Those are the people I care for. I have affection for people of the book, but the people of this town—“ She shrugs them off. “Never any telling when one of them will have a chicken that dies, and one of them starts screaming that I’m a witch and I cursed her hen. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’ve seen it happen to others in my profession. So I keep them at a distance. But Ezra—he went out there because I told him to, because I thought it would do him some good to be away from large populations. Less chance of him cutting people to shreds. At first, he did it because I asked him to. Acted the part of a human being. As time passed, he became one. He cares about those people. Would do anything for them. And now that appears to extend to you.”

            “I did not ask for that.” James mutters, “Nor for anyone’s pity.”

            “No one pities _you_ ,” Richards says coldly. “Believe me, Mr. Moore. Maybe you hear pity in this letter, but I know the man more than you. He does not pity you. He recognizes himself in you. He was in a terrible state when he came here. Little more than clay with purpose.”

            “The golem.”

            Richards pauses, then says, “The golem.”

            James stirs his spoon through his bowl. “He called me one. He said we both were.”

            With a sigh, Richards pushes herself up. She goes to the hearth, and picks up a stick. “See this, Mr. Moore?” She traces a three symbols into the ashes. Pointing at them with the stick, she says, “Emet. This is what is inscribed into the forehead of the golem, to bring him to life. The word means ‘truth.’” She erases the third symbol with her foot. “Do that, remove the aleph, and the word changes. It becomes met—which means death. The golem returns to clay.” She tosses the stick into the fire, then hobbles back to the table, easing herself down. “Are you a monster of your own making, Mr. Moore?”

            He sits there, then glances over at the hearth. The fire crackles, illuminating the symbols. Quietly, he asks, “How is that the word ‘truth’ makes monsters?”

            “Sometimes that is the truth. Sometimes the truth is that a thing _is_ a monster. It depends on who controls it. The golem itself, it is not good or bad—the word itself, it means raw material. An unformed thing. Its creator gives it purpose, decides whether it works for the good or the bad. In your case, in Ezra’s, you both chose the bad. I cannot say about you, but I know with Ezra—he was both creator and creature. He lost himself, forgot that he was both, and thought he was only the monster. It wasn’t me who erased the aleph from his forehead. I merely reminded him of who he was. For Ezra, the golem now is a tool, as it should be. Sometimes it is a monster. As it should be. He controls his creation, though—it does not control him.”

            It sits with James. He continues to gaze at the word in the ashes.

            “So which are you, Moore?” asks Richards. “Are you the creator? Or are you the creation?”

            He looks at her, and he has no idea.

 

It is the middle of nowhere.

            Tugging on the reins, James brings Marcus to a stop. He raises his head, looking into the forest. The quiet here. It is so impossibly quiet.

            He climbs off the horse, giving Marcus a rest. The animal was glad to see him yesterday. James was glad too. More than he realized he would be. Patting Marcus’ black side, James gazes around him, seeking any kind of movement.

            There is none. The trees are heavily laden with snow, and the sky is grey. Nothing moves in the forest, no twigs are broken. It is only him, alone in the wilderness.

            There is a prickle of fear. He frowns, uncertain why it should be now that he feel this way. When was the last time he was frightened by anything? Only it is so remote. For all he knows, it is but he and his horse for miles and miles. It may be a silly thing to think—there are animals, and birds. It is little different from being on the water, knowing that the sea was full with fish. The empty sky did not worry him. Why should this?

            _Because I am alone_.

            It should not bother him. He realizes, with tired acquiescence, after all these months, that it does.

 

It is much like the first time that James came down this lane. He follows the sound of music on the wind, easily recognizing the song. It cheers him a little to hear the tune. Once again, the dog barks as he approaches, and the sound of strings stops.

            He prompts Marcus, who has been lagging for some time, onwards, and the door to Wake’s opens. Wake stands in the doorway, violin and bow in his left hand. His dog noses between his legs and the door as Wake looks out into the darkness.

            Bringing Marcus to a halt, James feels the animal pant under him. He led the horse right past the road to his home, coming here first. Swinging his leg over the side, James hops down to the ground.     

            “Good evening,” Wake says. Cu Sith lets out a low growl, and Wake sighs. He hooks a leg around her and pushes her back inside, giving her a disapproving expression. He turns back to James, face blank but his eyes cautious.

            James withdraws the parcel from his saddle bag, and walks to the steps. “Good evening,” he remembers to say, several moments too late. He holds out the package. “Mrs. Richards asked that I might pass this along to you.”

            Wake walks out onto the snowy porch in his bare feet, taking the package. “Thank you.”

            As he steps back, James asks, “Was that ‘The Golden Vanity’?”

            Pausing, Wake nods. He looks down at his violin, then turns, crouching. He puts the parcel inside, then stands back up. Lifting the violin, he tucks it under his chin, and raises his bow. After a second, he slides it across the strings in assured strokes, gazing down along the instrument.

            James has heard the song many times before, but usually in crowds. When someone plays the fiddle in a crowd, it is meant to cheer people. There is always a bounce to this song in particular, even given the injustice of the story.

            Like this, though, in the winter night, there is a keening quality to the music. Wake is as precise with the violin as he is with his sword, fingers expertly switching place along the neck and vibrating on the strings. The music does little to brighten one’s spirit. It is a melancholy thing, rising in the dark.

            James hears the words in his head as Wake plays a single chorus. _He left him in the lowland, lowland low, he left him in the lowland sea._ He has never heard the song played like this before. James watches the strings, thinking of how most of the songs he knows are sorrowful in subject, though they are rarely played that way.

            When Wake lifts his bow, the final note echoes in the air for a long moment.

            He ducks his head, then says, “No need to say it. I know I tend to take the happiness out of songs when it’s for my benefit alone, Mr. Moore—“

            “McGraw.”

            He looks at the porch, but he can feel Wake’s gaze upon him.

            James clears his throat, and says, so there can be no mistaking, “My name is James McGraw.”

            They stand there, then Wake transfers his bow to his left hand. Deliberately, he reaches his right hand out. “A pleasure, Mr. McGraw. Ezra Wake, at your service.”

            James cannot look him in the eye, but he takes the man’s hand. His hand is larger than Wake’s, but he can feel the strength in it. James does not know what to say, so he nods, and shakes Wake’s hand twice before letting go.

            There is a silence, then Wake coughs. “I must take her inside,” he says, patting his violin. “The cold is not good for her.” James recognizes this as his cue to leave. Only Wake says, “If you are not too tired from your journey—it would please me greatly to hear any news of Martha. I understand, though, that it has been a long two days.”

            _What is the nature of the whole_ , _and what is my nature?_

It is difficult—it is impossibly difficult—but James says, “I would be happy for the warmth. Mine—“ He nods eastwards. “Is likely colder inside than out.”

            “There is more than enough room in the stable for your horse, if you would care to stay awhile.”

            They both speak so carefully. Each of them watching the other, looking for the moment when the start of this alliance collapses. It is too strange to live, after all.

            James says, “Very well.”

            A moment passes, then a faint smile passes over Wake’s mouth. “Very well,” he echoes quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Part Two: Winter.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has come this far. Special thanks have to go to xJuniperx, DreamingPagan, and jauneclair, for being my faithful commenters and the kind of readers a writer dreams about.   
> Part Three: Spring will begin on Friday. I hope to see you all then.


	15. Spring: Friends

SPRING

_April 12, 1721_

_I woke this morning to the sound of dripping snow. It is the second time to happen this week. Fraser says not to be deceived, that we will see a few more large snowfalls before spring is truly here, but I confess that it was a welcome sight. I did not know a man could miss a colour until the New Hampshire winter took away all that was green._

_I had dinner with the Smithes and O’Donnells last evening. It was somewhat awkward for me without Wake present. With him away, I had to navigate the encounter on my own. I do not think I did too terribly. Robert and I were able to talk about horses. Marcus needs new shoes again, and Robert talked about the process at length, so I did not have to say much._

_His mother has warmed to me ever so slightly. I believe my role in preventing Rebecca Smithe’s death helped facilitate this thaw. She behaves to me as usual, pretending that I am like all the others, and it’s only about the eyes that I see her watching my every movement. That has lessened somewhat._

_I have never told her that I am aware we met before this place. Doing so would of course expose that Wake told me a confidence, and I do not wish to create any animosity between the two._

_Young Miss Smithe is quite inquisitive, despite her mother’s embarrassment. She had questions about what it was like to go to sea, to be a sailor. I asked if she wanted to be a sailor, and she said yes. We all had a good laugh about that, only I thought of Anne Bonny and wondered if they would have laughed had they known it was an occupation that some women of particular ambition can obtain. I told her a little about sloops, what I thought would bore her—the riggings, knots—but I think I only intrigued her further. Were she a boy, I have little doubt that she would run off to sea by the age of twelve._

_Everyone agreed that it was quite fortunate that no one had fallen terribly ill in Wake’s absence, but we all are relieved that his return from Portsmouth is imminent. I believe Tess expressed it the best of any of us. She said that the town did not really feel like itself in Ezra’s absence. I said nothing, but the statement rang true._

_I went by Wake’s to let out the dog again after dinner. At last, she no longer growls when I approach. We are not friends, I would say, but she has accepted me as a necessary evil who feeds her while her master is away. Soon I shall go over again. I ought to return his edition of_ The Nature of Things _before he_

 

James raises his head. He hears barking. With a roll of the eyes, he mutters, “Of course.”

            Closing the ink well, he drops the quill on the table, then rises with a stretch. It is not yet mid-day, but the sun is high. Spring is coming, whether Fraser wants to admit it or not. He closes the journal, but leaves it where it is. Walking across the floor, he unlatches his door, and leans against the open frame.

            Down the road comes Ezra and Cu Sith. She is bounding, overjoyed that her master has returned. Ezra laughs at her, clapping a hand to his thigh and stepping back a few quick feet. She jumps after him, and he rubs his hand over her head, jiggling it vigorously.

            When Ezra straightens, he sees James in the doorway. Raising a hand, he calls cheerfully, “Mr. McGraw!”

            “Mr. Wake,” James replies, crossing his arms.

            Ezra has a sack over his shoulder. His coat has been left open in deference to the warming weather. In the last few months, his hair has grown longer, while James has just shaved all his off again. He opens the gate, giving Cu Sith a whistle. “Go on. Go run about.” She whimpers, and Ezra laughs. “You’re not coming in with me. You know this one would never have it.” Ezra has to actually close the gate against her, and the dog presses her face to it, whining.

            “God,” James says with mock complaint, “she’s not going to do that the entire time you’re here, is she?”

            “Likely, sir,” Ezra says with a grin. “Do I find you well?”

            James can no longer hold back his smile. “You do,” he says, reaching out his hand. “How was your journey?”

            Ezra shakes his hand, then follows him inside. “Good. Quite good.” He drops his sack on the ground, which sounds heavy. As James shuts the door, Ezra sheds his coat, hanging it up on the wall. “The weather held, my friends were all well, and I bought my weight in books.”

            Nodding to the sack, James asks, “And what’s that?”

            “About half of them. I see you’ve been raiding my library again. As it stands, I thought you could read half, I could read the other, and then switch when we’re done. Better than you asking every time if you can take a single book, when I know you’ll just want another the day after.”

            “You’re one to talk.”

            Ezra glances over at the single shelf that holds James’ books, and raises a brow. “Oh yes. I can see as how I must be an irritant to you, always wanting to plunder your vast stores—“

            “I cannot recall the day I stopped considering you an irritant in general.”

            “February 15,” Ezra replies.

            With a shake of the head, James mutters, “You _always_ have an answer.”

            He picks up the sack—Jesus, Ezra was not kidding about how many books he bought. As he takes it to the table, Ezra says, “The ones you asked for are in there as well. I also bought the items you asked for, but they’re at my house. I’ll bring them by tomorrow, if you’re amenable.”

            “You couldn’t have just brought the wagon?”

            “You might not believe this, James, but Kelpie requires a short respite before being tied to the wagon once more.”

            Flatly, James says, “I’m shocked.”

It is still a new thing, for Ezra to call him by his given name. He did it for the first time in mid-March, about a week before leaving for Portsmouth. They both paused, and Ezra coughed, then put up his fists. “I know you’re a stickler for formality, sir. Knuckles it is, then.” James had rolled his eyes and snapped at him to stop being dramatic. The change upset him, slightly. His anger only lessened when he realized that the last person to call him by his name had been Miranda.

            For some time now, since late February at least, James has not thought of Ezra as Wake. It began with Fredericks’ daughter flirting outrageously with the man one night at the tavern. She kept calling him by his first name, batting her eyes at him, and James watched the carefully oblivious exterior Ezra put up with increasing amusement. He started keeping track of how many times the girl used the name, and when he reached twelve, he shocked everyone, including himself, by breaking out in laughter. Mr. Walters yelped, “Jesus, I didn’t know that you _could_ laugh.”

            On the walk home, which they sometimes took together, James could not help himself. “You must have studied so hard, Ezra. Oh, you are so clever, Ezra. Let’s go get the parson this very second and be wed, Ezra.”

            “It _is_ my name,” Ezra replied. “Honestly, is it that amusing to you?”

            “Your name? No. What amused me is she has no idea that her cock isn’t large enough for you.”

            At that, Ezra threw back his head and cackled.

            He thinks of Ezra by his first name, but has never used it save in jest. It seems too—personal. They are—yes—friends, but it has been a long time since James had a friend. He has gone about it cautiously.

            “Sad news,” Ezra says, opening up the bag. “Well—perhaps not. You told me about your encounters with Calico Jack?”

            There was a name he was well rid of. “Rackham,” James says distastefully. “Slimy little shit.”

            Shrugging, Ezra reaches into the sack. “Then perhaps you’ll be pleased to hear that Calico Jack is no more.”

            “What? Really?” Ezra nods, and James asks, “When?”

            “Last November. Stole a 12 ton sloop from Nassau and was captured in October. Your friend Woodes Rogers was not fond of him either, so it seems. Hung him in Port Royal.” Ezra pulls out a few newspapers. He holds them out. They are all _The Jamaica Courant_. “I was unsure if you would want to look at them or not.”

            James looks at them, then says, “I think not.”

            Nodding, Ezra puts them back in the bag. He starts pulling out books, piling them on the table.

            James realizes that his journal is sitting there. Taking a seat, James rests his arm on the closed book, a touch embarrassed.

            Never one to miss anything, Ezra comments, “Not that you don’t know this, but you ought to hide that when company is coming.”

            “Didn’t know I was having company. Company just invited himself.” Ezra gives his head a shake, separating the books James asked for from the ones he bought himself. James thinks about it, then says, “I’m not pleased to hear about Rackham.”

            “I thought not.”

            “My plans,” James says, with a still disbelieving sigh. “Chasing that bloody ship, sacrificing all the men I did—and who ends up with the fucking _Urca_ ’s haul?”

            “Captain Jack Rackham.”

            “Captain Jack Rackham,” James mutters. “Of course, he was just acting according to his nature. Slippery little bastard. It’s the other one—“

            He stops himself before he says the name. Ezra says it for him. “Silver.”

            James grunts at the name, acknowledging it but doing no more than that. “Rackham wasn’t the mastermind. He was the beneficiary. But if even he’s been hung—well. Perhaps my efforts to secure the gold, had they been successful, would have still been for nothing. Maybe it would have ended with me on the gallows.” He realizes Ezra is giving him a look, and says defensively, “What?”

            “I don’t know what to do when you second guess yourself,” Ezra replies with a straight face. “I feel as though the world might tip off its axis.”

            “Oh, shut up.”

            With a chuckle, Ezra pulls out the other chair, and sits with his arms crossed on the table. “You kept yourself amused while I was gone?”

            “Somehow I managed.”

            “What should I know about?”

            “You haven’t been to town yet?”

            Face going wary, Ezra asks, “Why? Something dire?”

            “No, just—I thought you would have made that a priority.”

            Ezra puts his index finger to his lips. He shakes his head, and sits back. “I’ll take the rest of the day to unpack my things, and go in tomorrow. Do you know what the first day back for me looks like? I’ve been gone three weeks. All the little complaints people have saved up—I’m sure Esther is starved for attention. Everyone wanting to come in and hear about Portsmouth and the news, and to gossip. I’ll be lucky to get home by nine. I’m missing Black Shuck something terrible, but I’ll have to leave him another day. Did Fraser say he was all right?”

            “You know, you care more about those dogs than most people do their children.”

            “Yes,” Ezra replies, seeing nothing wrong with that. “You care about your horse more than most men do their wives.” James gives him a glance, then picks up the pile of books he requested. Ezra pulls out a small pouch and tosses it on the table. “Leftover coin from your purchases.”

            “Thank you.”

            Ezra nods, picking up one of the books from his pile and slumping in his seat. He flips to the first page, and they each sit for a moment in companionable silence.

            Finally, James glances towards the bag. “Anything—else of interest in the papers?”

            Without looking up, Ezra’s mouth pulls into a crooked smile.

 

That they are friends at all remains something of a puzzle to James.

            From the beginning of their détente in January, James looked for any sign that Wake was initiating an alliance. He remembered how Silver had wormed his way in, and after being burned so terribly by the curly haired bastard, James had no intention of repeating the experience.

            The first night, when James had just returned from Siddeston, he stayed late. He told Wake about Martha, and the Hendersons, not informing him that James and Martha had discussed him. Wake listened, quiet, attentive, and when James had no more to say, and wondered what he ought to say in such a circumstance, Wake asked, “Would it bother you if I played something? I’m of the mood to.” James said that he did not mind, for he truly didn’t, and he listened for nearly a half an hour as the other man made melancholy music rise from his strings.

            A few mornings later, Wake showed up on his doorstep to warn him that he had seen a wolf on his property the night before. “I know you haven’t a door on your stable,” he commented. “It would be a pity to lose an animal so fine.” He tipped his head and made to leave, but James asked, “How large are they?” They had a cordial conversation about the wildlife in the area, and then Wake went on his way.

            Two days after that, James found himself entering the apothecary shop. Wake had that same expression on his face whenever James approached him or did not seem annoyed by him: barely concealed confusion masked by civility.

            “What might I do for you, sir? Teeth bothering you again?”

            “No,” James said, and realized he was shuffling his feet. _Good lord, man, what is wrong with you?_ Clearing his throat, he made himself look at Wake’s face. “When I was in your home, I couldn’t help but notice you have a rather sizeable collection of books.”

            Wake came to stand behind the counter, so that he could face James but keep a barrier between them. “Would—you care to borrow something?”

            With a sheepish grimace, James said, “I think I’ve read every book I own at least twice through, and begun to commit them to memory.”

            He was so used to the dark eyed man having a quick response to everything that his hesitations these days stuck out more obviously. Wake said nothing a moment before seeming to remember himself. “You’re of course welcome to borrow whatever you please.” James was going to remark that he did not seem too sure when Wake frowned. “You’re not the type to abuse a book, are you? I am quite particular about them.”

            “Abuse?”

            “Folding down corners. Spilling your drink.” Wake crossed his arms, arching a brow. “I simply can’t have that.”

            With a smirk, James said, “Duly noted.”

            Wake glanced away a moment, then snapped his fingers. “You know—I have something I wonder if you might like.” He left the counter, brushing past the curtain to the back. “It’s very new—only just come over from England. I finished it last week, forgot to take it back to the house.” He returned with a midsize, leather bound book. Flipping to the cover page, he read, “ _The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe of York, Mariner_.” Shutting it, Wake held it out. “Tell me what you think.”

            Three days later, James was on Wake’s front porch with the book. Holding it up, he said by way of greeting, “A sailor marooned. Was that a pointed commentary?”

            With a shrug, Wake responded, “I didn’t tell you what it was about because I thought you might take it that way.” He moved back, asking without words if James wanted to come in.

            Stepping inside, James asked, “Is this based on Selkirk?”

            “I assumed as much,” Wake answered, shutting the door against the cold.

            Shucking his boots, James said, “It’s rather an overstatement of the facts, isn’t it? Selkirk was only on the island for four years as I recall, before his royal highness Woodes Rogers saved him.”

            Trying to hold back a smile, Wake said, “It’s a _fiction_ , Mr. McGraw.”

            Unimpressed, James went to take the chair that faced the wall, the one he had sat in during Wake’s confession. “He’s certainly not a sailor,” he remarked as Wake moved about behind him, the sound of a kettle being placed on the stove.

            “No. Merchant. I think you would like him, though—Queen Anne had him arrested for dissent.”

            With a nod, James agreed, “That does improve my opinion of him.”

            “I’ve another of his books— _The Storm._ About the Great Storm of 1703.”

            “Now _that_ —that I remember. It would be difficult to forget.”

            “You were in England?”

            “I was on a ship that sank. _HMS York_.”

            “I _said_ you were navy, didn’t I.” James rolled his eyes, but Wake had sat down across from him. Crossing his legs at the knee, Wake looked at him attentively. “What was that like?”

            And so James told him the story of the sinking of the _York_ , and Wake got them both a cup of tea. James then told him about the sinking of the _Celestina_ , and it was so much easier than he expected, to do that. To tell stories. It was like pressure being released, finding someone who he could share some of his history with. Wake seemed to have a preternatural ability for knowing when to ask questions and when to simply let a story be told. James said as little about himself as possible, describing the event and his reaction, not what had led him there, and Wake did not pry.

            That became the basis of their friendship—books and stories about the sea. James would borrow something from Ezra’s collection—he thought of the man as Ezra by then—and then they would talk about it, argue about it. One of them would say, “Have you ever heard the story of--?” And even if the other had, he would say he had not.

Often, when the night drew to a close, Ezra would take out his violin, and move with ease between proper pieces and shanties. It eventually reached the point where James would ask if he knew particular songs. Most of the time Ezra did, but when he did not, he would try and get James to sing to demonstrate, which never worked.

            They settled into a routine. More nights than not, James would find himself at Ezra’s, for his house was larger, and warmer, and felt more lived in, and he found that he appreciated the company after so many months—perhaps years—of self-imposed solitude.

            There was a topic they did not broach, until one night James asked plainly, “Are you afraid of Flint?”

            Ezra paused, then asked, “Should I be?”

            “You know you bloody well should.”

            “Alas—I am not.”

            “That’s a mistake.”

            Shrugging, Ezra said, “Is he here with us now?”

            James could tell that Ezra thought the answer was ‘no,’ and so he put him to rights. “He’s always here.” Sobering, Ezra looked down. “You don’t ask about him. You listen to the stories, but you don’t ask for them.”

            “If you wanted to tell me, you would in your own time.” Tilting his head, Ezra questioned, “What is that look on your face?”

            “What does it look like to you?”

            “It is the same expression you had on your face the first time I approached your house. As if I was an invader. Strange, when I have just said that I did not consider it my place to press you.”

            He wavered. This could be the hinge, the moment he looked back upon and went, _that’s where I fucked it up and said too goddamn much_. James scratched at his lower lip with his thumb, considering the position they were both in.

            “You remind me of someone,” he said at last. “Sometimes.”

            “Who might that be?”

            “John Silver.” He looked to see if the name held any recognition for Ezra.   

            After a moment, his eyes cleared. “Your successor.” James nodded, looking down at Cu Sith. She gazed back, unblinking. “If you worry about me usurping you, there’s a minor problem, sir—I’m already in far greater standing than you.”

            James smiled toothily at that, the smile he knew scared most. It never scared Ezra.

            “How do I remind you of him?”

            “He was a liar too. But not of your caliber. His lies were far blunter things. Only I failed to see them for what they were. He influenced the crew through pretense of affection as well.” James sat back, then said, with some bitterness, “I trusted him. I do not do that easily.”

            “You think I mean to betray you?”

            “If it meant the town?”           

            Ezra shook his head. “We’re in a precarious position. If you destroy me, I destroy you and vice versa. I’ve no intent of that happening. What do I have to gain by crossing you? And frankly….”

            “What?”

            Inhaling through his nose, Ezra admitted, “I like having someone to talk to. I could dress it up with words, but really—who else could I impress with the information that I once performed three leg amputations in under twenty minutes?”

            “Who says I was impressed?”

            With utter seriousness, Ezra insisted, “You raised both brows. Really, Mr. McGraw, I don’t think words were needed. I was rather touched.”

            James snorted, relaxing a little. He had that thing hanging about him again. That tiredness. Like hanging onto all these old grudges was dragging him down.

            “I’ll tell you about John Silver,” James said. And Ezra answered, “All right.”

            The story was told, but with the same omissions James always made. He never mentioned Miranda. Never mentioned Thomas. He focused on Silver, and Gates, and Billy and Vane and Guthrie and Nassau. What he meant for Nassau.

            When he finished, with his waking alone on Cat Island, it was late into the night, and he had not spoken so long and truly since the night on the Maroons’ island with Silver. At the story’s close, he waited for an opinion.

            It was a wait of some time before Ezra spoke. “I’ve not said anything because you know what I will say.”

            “I don’t.”

            “You do,” Ezra murmured, watching James’ face. With a scowl, James glanced away. “It takes a kind of bravery to tell a man your faults, much as it takes that friend to tell you yours.”

            James snapped, “And who says we are friends?”

            With a sigh, Ezra nodded. His sanguine acceptance only angered James further.

            “You must be half mad, and so must I. I am going soft, here in the middle of nowhere. No one in his right mind would give his confidence to a lying, murdering, sodomite _Jew_ —“

            Cu Sith, who had been curled beside Ezra’s chair, leapt up, growling . She stepped forward.

            Nonplused, Ezra placed his hand on her back. He whispered to her in Hebrew, and she moved back, but kept her teeth bared at James. Petting her head, Ezra said offhandedly, “If you think any of those words will offend me, you’re a fool. I’m all those things, which I have freely admitted to you. Lose your temper all you please. It only confirms what we both already know.”

            Pushing himself up, James hissed, “Fuck this,” and strode out.

            Pride kept him away as long as it could, but common sense won out, in what he wryly noted seemed to be a once a season occurrence. He found himself back on the porch in the middle of a Sunday, assuming that Ezra would not have gone to town for prayers. He knocked, but there was no answer.

            Thinking that perhaps Ezra had left for somewhere, though that was strange, for the dog was not barking at him, James stepped away from the door. Then he heard a loud clatter from the back yard, and a furious, “Manyak!” There was a clatter, then the sound of what James assumed was cursing.

            He walked around the house, just in time to see Ezra kick the stable door open. He was holding his left forearm, blood pouring down it. His sleeves were rolled up, his knees dirty. “Having some trouble?” James asked.

            Ezra glared at him, Cu Sith coming around his legs, and the man headed straight for the house, muttering viciously, “Ben zona!” He came to the back door, then nodded at it brusquely. “For Christ’s sake, my hands are full—“

            “Of course, Mr. Wake,” James said with some amusement. It was the most upset he had ever seen Ezra. He pulled the door open, and the man darted inside, the dog on his heels. Ezra began rifling through his cabinets, and put a bandage to whatever the wound was, dropping his head. “How’d you do that?”

            Turning murderous eyes on him, Ezra said, “Leh zaient ima shha—“ He lifted his arm, removing the bandage. Blood continued to leak from a two inch tear in his arm. “Well—this will need stitches.” He pressed the bandage back to the wound, grimacing. “That horse. That fucking horse.”

            “She kick you? If so, I’d say you got off lightly—“

            “Does this _look_ like she kicked me?” Ezra pinned his injured arm to his side, starting to pull things out of the cupboards. When he saw James still standing there, he barked, “Lech lehizdayen—if you’re going to do something, go check on the bloody horse!”

            So James did that, not even bothering to disguise his gratification at seeing Ezra Wake truly lose his temper. In the stable, he found Kelpie nervously moving about her stall, with only three shoes on. The farrying equipment had all been tossed to the ground, along with an unused shoe and four old ones. Reaching down, James picked up a bloodied nail.

            When he returned to the house, Ezra was seated at the table, his left arm extended on a pile of old rags. He was in the midst of stitching the wound closed with a curved needle, appearing considerably calmer.

            “Is she all right?” Ezra asked.

            James took the other seat. “Yes.” He frowned. “Why not let it bleed?”

            Ezra cast him a withering look. “I don’t know what your surgeon was like, sir, but I’ve twenty years’ experience, and despite prevailing wisdom, I don’t believe the further letting of blood to be a remedy for loss of that vital fluid.”

            With a shrug, James remarked, “Only thinking of the humours.”

            Rolling his eyes, Ezra said, “A great deal can be learned from books, sir. But when it contradicts what I have seen with my own eyes, I will trust myself.” He slipped the needle through the skin, drawing the waxed silk thread through. His stitches were exceedingly neat, and he showed no pain at the self-inflicted intrusion.

            “Good stitches.”

            Shaking his head, Ezra responded, “They would be better if I was not doing this on myself. Then I would have my cannula. A pity, that I do not have three hands.” He pushed the needle through again, tilting his head to watch where it emerged. “I know you are not one to apologize, so I’ll assume we’re on speaking terms again.”

            James cleared his throat while Ezra stitched. “My quickness to anger is one of my better known features.”

            “Indeed.”

            He picked up the bloody nail. “How did you do this?”

            “Oh, I was—putting on the new shoes, and she went to kick me for no bloody reason while I was bringing down the hammer. Missed her foot but by some—completely unknown reason, the nail ended up in my arm.” Ezra shook his head again in utter disbelief. “I was holding it in my _left hand_. How in the hell did the wound end up there? I’m lucky I’m not bleeding to death, that panicky old nag—“ Ezra nodded towards his plaster box. “Would you see about my scissors, please?”

            James pulled them out, setting them on the table. “You don’t have Robert do the shoes for you?”

            “I am quite capable of—you are baiting me. I’m not of a mood to be baited, Mr. McGraw.” Ezra tied off the knot, then snipped through the thread. He turned his arm side to side, studying his work, before blowing out a breath. Plucking at his bloodied shirt, he sighed. “Well, suppose it will do for bandages, once it’s been cleaned.”

            He stripped off the shirt, tossing it on the table in disgust, then cleaned the blood from his arm and hands with a wet rag. James could see again all his many scars. There was hardly a spot on his back that did not show a sign of the lash. Without a word, Ezra bounded up the stairs to the attic.

            A few minutes later, he returned in a clean shirt, his usual amiable exterior back in place. “Mr. McGraw,” he said. “Forgive my bad temper. My pride was wounded, and I tend to be rather unreasonable when that is the case.”

            James nodded, realizing the irony of Ezra apologizing to him. “What was it you said to me?”

            Gathering up his things back into the plaster box, Ezra asked, “When?”

            “You said several things I didn’t understand.”

            “Ah. I suppose I did.”

            James tried, “La—zaint--?”

            With a nod, Ezra admitted with a slight smile, “I might have told you to fuck your mother.”

            “Might?”

            “I definitely told you to fuck your mother.” Shrugging, Ezra gathered up the detritus and bloodied cloths, and said, “Would you expect better of a lying Jewish sodomite?”

            As he went to dispose of things, James took a moment. Then he said, “I am sorry for that.”

            Ezra let out a gasp. “The _infamous_ Captain Flint apologizes for something? I—I don’t know what to do with myself. Next the very _stars_ will fall from the sky.”

            “Get it out of your system,” James said. Ezra sat back down, giving him a smug grin. James sighed, then told the truth. “I shouldn’t have been cross with you. You’ve been nothing but patient with me.”

            Ezra lifted a hand, shaking his head. “Now you must stop,” he said. “You are actually causing me concern.” He sat back, flexing his injured arm. “Your apology is accepted. We’ve no quarrel, you and I.”

            James nodded. He knew the matter could just lay. That Ezra would say nothing more on the topic. But more needed to be said. “You understand why I was…upset.”

            “You’d just told me the story of the last man you considered a friend. Yes, I understand why you were upset.”

            “I don’t—always—know why I am.” James screwed up his face, and admitted, “It is a fucking frustration. When the people who know me—the few who have—understand me better than I do myself. I tend to…be angered at them, instead of swallowing my pride and listening to what they have to say.”

            When a few moments had passed, Ezra asked quietly, “Do you want me to say it? Do you want me to say what you don’t want to hear?”

            Putting his elbows on his knees, James shook his head. “Do I want you to? No. But I think I need to hear it, nonetheless.”

            With a cringe, Ezra looked back over his shoulder. “Should I get my sword? You might change your mind when I say it.” James lowered his head with a smirk. When Ezra spoke again, his voice was quiet and steady. “You know Silver was right. You can hate him from now until the end of time, and we won’t speak of him in favourable terms again unless you choose to. But this once, I’ll say the words and you can hear them. You went mad in the Indies. I don’t know what made you that way, and you’ve been very careful not to reveal to me why. That’s your affair, and I do not need to know the particulars. Whatever they were, though, you became a man obsessed. You chose a goal that was unattainable—the subjugation of the _world_. England, Spain—everyone. You acted as though you could make the world bend to you by will alone. You said you wanted to make a place that was for free men, but you wanted them all to bow to you and your opinion and your plan. That’s not freedom. That is you deluding yourself. Someone hurt you gravely, and this was your revenge. You know I’ve been there myself, but I did not mean to destroy the world to allay my suffering, only one man. I was willing to kill whoever I needed to wreak my vengeance on him. That turned out to be six people. But you—and you know this, and Silver knew this, and your crew knew this—you would have killed every last one of them in the attempt to realize your impossible vision. You would have killed every single person on the _island_. You would have destroyed the thing you claimed you wanted to save, if you could not have it as you wished. That’s insanity. They recognized it, and they chose sanity. That meant leaving you behind. I believe that action caused the first crack in your conviction. That you could not rule solely by fear. Silver was right, and I know this, for I have seen all manner of captain, and the ones who live in terror of their master, they will do his bidding, but they will flee when given the first chance. But the captains who rule by fear, respect, and love—there is nothing the crew would not do for him. I’ve seen this, and know it with certainty. He offered them life. You offered them death. Of course they chose him.”

            The silence, not surprisingly, was a heavy one.

            Finally, Ezra sighed. “I should have gotten my katana.” He reached under the table, pulling out a short dagger. “Very well, McGraw. Do your worst.”

            James let out a soft laugh. Gazing at the floor, he said, “It is…a difficult truth to hear.” He glanced up at Ezra, who watched him cautiously. “It is a brave man…or friend…who would say such a thing, knowing the manner of man he said it to.”

            “Or a lunatic,” Ezra said, and James chuckled.

            “Or that.” James pushed a hand back through his hair. “I already know you’re insane. Killing three officers over an arrogant, stubborn, disagreeable pirate you could barely stand.”

            “I think you forgot ill tempered.” James narrowed his eyes, and Ezra smirked. “Well—I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” He stood up, and to James’ surprise, as he passed, put a hand down on James’ shoulder.

            The touch lasted but a second. The import of it was harder to shake.

 

“Rackham,” James mutters.

            Ezra raises his brows, lowering his cup from his lips. “Still bothering you, then?”

            Sprawled back in his usual chair at Ezra’s, enjoying the rum the man brought back from Portsmouth, James shakes his head. “I thought I’d be pleased the day I heard the man was dead. I thought I might even dance a jig.”

            “There’s many would pay good money to see that.”

            “And yet here I am, and—it seems a waste of time, to be so bothered by that man’s demise. It’s not like when Vane died. I hated Vane a long time, and with good cause—but we were fighting the same fight. He died with honour, which is something you can almost never say for our kind. I thought well of him for that. But— _Rackham_.” James tries to parse it out as the candles flicker off the walls. “The man was a rat. Do you know, he even looked like one?”

            “Did he?”

            James gestures to his lip. “Ridiculous little mustache. Beady eyes that were always darting about, like they were looking for the last crumb. Skinnier than you are. His hair—he had the most preposterous hair. I don’t know that I can even describe it. But from head to toe, in his ludicrous outfits, he looked exactly like a rat.”

            He looks over. Ezra is listening in his usual way, blinking little, sipping at his drink.

            James has seen that look before. “Oh for Christ’s sake, spit it out.”

            “What?”

            “You’re dying to do it. Tell me why it’s bothering me. I can see you think you know why, so do that obnoxious thing you do and tell me why I’m bothered.”

            Ezra glances away with amusement, then shrugs. “You expect a rat to survive everything, don’t you.”

            James thinks about it, then says, “Damn you, Wake.” Ezra laughs and continues to drink. “Do you ever think what it would be like if you weren’t always right?”

            “Oh, you’re only cross because I’m usually right, and you’re always convinced you’re right but rarely are.” It is a mark of how far they have come that Ezra can say such a thing to him and not get punched in the nose.

The truth is—James is glad for his return. More than he thought he would be. The past three weeks, it was a stark reminder of what his life had been like when he first came to The Edge. It was almost maddeningly quiet. He went about his days alone, and when he went to bed at night often found he had spoken to no one save Marcus.

            He spent more time in town after the first few days of solitude in his home. Meals in the tavern, finally allowing people to invite him to dinner. Before, he had gone begrudgingly, but now he found himself wanting for companionship. That said, it was not quite what he wanted.

            It is dangerous, and he recognizes it. To become dependent on anyone. To some extent, he has done just that. Without Ezra around, James had to admit that at times he was—well, _lonely_.

            “Tell me about the first time you met Rackham,” Ezra says, and it is rare that he asks for specific stories. He knows that James keeps much to himself still.

            Reaching back for the story, listening to the low fire’s gentle crackle, James gazes at the stairs. He finds the memory, and shakes his head once. “This is when he was still with Vane’s crew. He was his quartermaster for years. First time we met, it was Vane and he. Vane didn’t say much. But Rackham, he was eager to impress. He told Gates and I about how their crew was in Cuba, and a Spanish guardship came about, with an English sloop they had taken. Rackham was separated from Vane, and his ship attacked, and as night fell they were closed in by the guardship, trapped behind a small island. They were obviously outmaneuvered, and would be destroyed at dawn. So Rackham took a boat and his men and made for the sloop. They climbed aboard, told its men that they’d all be killed if they said a word, and headed out to sea. The Spanish were so fixed on the ship behind the island that they didn’t even notice the sloop leaving. And Rackham was so pleased with himself. You could tell he loved telling the story. Loved it. I always hated men like that—the men who tell you a thing to try and impress you. It seems so…desperate. Well, he finished telling me and Gates his little story and was looking between all of us like he expected a pat on the head or something. So I just—“ James shrugs. “He looked wounded. I don’t know what he expected. That’s not even a story.”

            Ezra gazes at him.

            “Oh, God damn it, what now?”

            With a little laugh, Ezra prompts, “James—for a rat, that’s a _very_ good story. How many times do you think he took hold of a vessel in the night, instead of worming his way through every situation he approached? Good on him.”

            “You’re just being contrary. You like to oppose me.”

            “They were in Cuba and he stole what the Spanish themselves had stolen? Come now.”

            “Not having it. You can’t make me respect the skinny little bastard. Dead though he might be.”

            Shaking his head, Ezra smiles a moment, then lifts his glass. “To Calico Jack. The rat that escaped many a sinking ship until the last.” James sighs, then briefly raises his cup. They drink. Swallowing, Ezra tilts his head, then puts down his cup. “Dear,” he says, getting to his feet, and walks over to the back of the house. Cu Sith is lying by the back door, head on her paws. Ezra crouches, scratching behind her ears. “Are you tired, dear? Was she like this while I was gone?”

            “I can’t say. She mostly just growled at me.”

            “I guess she and her brother aren’t puppies anymore. They’re ten years old now. Usually I can’t get her out from under my feet.” Ezra kisses the top of her head, then walks back to his chair. “This is usually the time of year I switch them over. She stays here in winter, then he comes here in summer.”

            “Why is that?”

            “He cannot bear the snow. I have to practically push him out of the shop to take a shit. She’s hardier, my girl. I need someone to mind the shop, and someone who’s not afraid to go out into the winter night when the animals come around.” Ezra frowns at his dog, then brushes aside whatever he’s thinking. “You don’t want to hear me go on about my animals again.”

            “My wanting to or not has never stopped you before.” Ezra waves him off, picking up his cup, and James asks, “Have you touched your violin since you returned?”

            Pausing, Ezra looks at him with a crooked smile. There is something in his eyes. It says, _I know you_. Without a word, he gets right back up, then goes to get his instrument.

            Plucking at the strings, Ezra remarks, “I daresay you missed me while I was gone.”

            Frowning, James replies, “I was glad for the quiet. Also glad to be the one who’s always right, for a change.”

            James hears Ezra snort from behind him, as he adjusts the strings. There are the creak of boards as Ezra walks the floor absently. James lets his head rest back, inhaling deeply. He has missed this. Yes. He has.

            Ezra comes to a stop in the middle of the house, halfway between James and Cu Sith. He sets the bows to the strings, then closes his eyes. He draws the bow across, and ‘Hanging Johnny’ comes singing from the violin. The music fills the house from floorboards to the rafters.

            James watches him play, how expertly his fingers work the strings by memory, perfectly rigid then vibrating. The black haired man leans into each to and fro of the bow, his head swaying back and forth to some internal beat.

            James thinks of how Ezra must have seemed to his old crew. The man who sewed them together again and brought them song, always unflappable. They must have loved him terribly.

            After several verses of the pensive sounding shanty, the tune changes abruptly to something James has never heard before. It is a joyous thing, and Ezra comes alive with it, turning to Cu Sith. He plays to her, and she lifts her head, tongue lolling out. He pounds his foot on the floor with the jig. The dog barks, perking up. Ezra bends over, grinning, and when he moves back, the dog jumps up.

            They chase one another in a little circle, dancing with one another. James shakes his head, not realizing he is smiling.

            Yes—whatever crew Ezra had been on, he would have been adored. James is certain of it.


	16. Panic

_April 16, 1721_

_I was wrong._

 

            James looks at the words, then tosses aside his quill. No. It is too much.

            He stands, wanting to tear the page from the book. It is not a thing he has ever done before, and he does not mean to now.

            Instead, he goes to the door, opening it up. The day is practically warm. Everything is melting, to the point where the constant sound of dripping no longer bothers him. Crossing his arms, he looks about. It is mid-day, the sun a visible glow behind the grey sky. A good day for a walk, if only to get away from those damned three words.

            He gets into his boots and puts on his cloak, locking the door behind himself. Walking around back of the house, he heads into the woods. The ground is not yet showing, but the snow gives away wetly beneath every footfall.

            The birds are chirping in the trees. He does not know what kind they are. Fraser could tell him. He knows all the animals in the area, and will gladly list them if given the opportunity.

            James wanders into the trees that he knows by now, after eight months in this place. It is a wonder that so much time has gone by. And yet, so much has changed that it seems impossible it has only been eight months. He is different than when he first came here. He is not so lost that he cannot see that.

            He is going to have to find something to do with himself. He needs to consider some kind of profession. This was, in the beginning, a temporary solution. He had not meant to stay here indefinitely. Lick his wounds, regroup, come up with another strategy—those were supposed to be the options.

            Only he has grown comfortable here. There is that voice that wants to pipe up in disgust, but it is quieter than it once was. James can almost picture a black figure retreating into the water. To be comfortable—after so many years—is that so terrible a thing? It is what most strive for in life.

            There is the narcissist in him that wants to protest that he was meant for bigger, more important things. But as the voices of his lost friends have popped up over the years, now he can picture the expression on Ezra’s face, were James to say such a thing. It would be calm, but there would be the slightest hint of a smirk, as if asking, _who made you king of the world_? Miranda reins in his worst tendencies, Thomas encourages him to be his best self, and Ezra grounds him.

            James is not meant to be king of anything. That is the truth of it. His will is not absolute. He does not speak with the voice of God. He fought England. England won. England _always_ wins.

            He is a student of history, though, and while he might be pigheaded he is not stupid. He has always been a man to play the long game, and he knows what none of the rich, wigged lords in London can even fathom. England may be on the rise now, but she will fail. It is the fate of nations. Every last one. Rome was not built in a day, and it did not fail in one either. So it shall be with England. James did not find victory, no, but England’s triumph will mean nothing in the end. It will all be ashes.

            _Cheerful thought_. He snorts to himself, climbing over a fallen branch. James has always been such a cheerful man, after all.

            Another thought intrudes, and it is a sobering one. _I failed him_. The levity disappears from James’ eyes, and he walks through the snow, brow furrowed.

            He had meant to do what Thomas wanted. A safe Nassau. Pardons for all. The bloody pardons, they had been so set on it, and when the day came that the pardons arrived, James fought it, because it had not been his doing. He had been on the same blood soaked course for so long that he could not even see the place from where he started. Miranda was dead by then. No reasonable voice to remind him from where he came.

            James had not secured the Nassau they dreamed of. The notion became twisted in his mind. What Thomas wanted, James forgot. He had been so dead set on making everyone _sorry_ for what they did. Making Nassau a haven for unwanted people, for chaos, that was what he fought for the last few years. Stupid. All that wasted time.

            _He would be so disappointed in me_.

            It is not a thought James ever allows himself to think. Once it rises to the surface, he finds he has to stop.

            If Thomas saw what James became, in his name, he would not only be horrified. He would be repulsed. The man James is—he thinks of the words Thomas inscribed at the front of the _Meditations_. My truest love. Thomas would never write those words to the man James is now.

            Has he not tried? This past year, once he finally, _finally_ , came to the realization that he had lost, he endeavoured to do no more damage. He retreated. He has come to this place, he has tried to live in quiet and solitude. Would Thomas not approve of that, at least?

            _I would never have him_ , James thinks with despair. _Not as I am_.

            He rubs a hand over his beard, sniffing and brushing it all off. Spilled milk and the like. Thomas is long dead. It does not matter what he would or would not think of what James has become.

            He is ashamed to tell himself that.

            The scream breaks through the woods like a shot.

            James turns, heart seizing. It has come from the northwest. Closer to Ezra’s property. Whatever animal is out there, James does not intend to meet it, not unarmed. He turns and begins a quick return to his house.

            The second scream is longer, and becomes words.

            Jesus—there is a person out here.

            The shrieking is high pitched, but when the word comes, James realizes that is not all. It is a child, screaming in the woods.

            He runs towards the sound.

           

It takes five minutes to locate the child, and when he does, James stops dead in his tracks.

            The boy is maybe seven or eight. He wears a blanket over his shoulders, his legs clothed in tanned skin of some kind. He wears a pointed hat, and is weeping hysterically from his dark eyes.

            His skin is light brown.

            When he sees James, he starts to scream even louder. He looks terrified, and no wonder. The snow is splattered with blood, and his ankle is caught between what looks like iron teeth emerging from the ground.

            _What in the_ hell _is that_?

            James lifts his hands, stepping closer and the child wails in fear. Stopping, James looks around, considering his options. Where there is one, there must be others. Best to just leave him be, let his own kind find him.

            That is a lot of blood.

            With a hiss, James goes to the child, kneeling in the snow. He knows there is nothing he can do to calm the boy. All he can do is try and free him from whatever it is he has caught himself in.

            The boy tries scrambling back, but the teeth catch with a clanking of chains and the audible tearing of flesh, and the child howls again. James looks down, then starts to dig through the snow.

            For the love of God—it is one of the animal traps that Ryder told him about. It is like an iron mouth that closes on the limb of an animal that has the misfortune of stepping into it. It attaches to a chain that is secured deep in the ground.

            Ezra. James forgot—oh, he does not want to bear that bad news.

            James tries to figure out how to open the thing. Ryder showed him back in December. Was there not a method to it?

            “To hell with it,” James mutters, and jams his hands between the iron teeth. Setting his jaw, he uses all his strength to pull the trap open. As the metal pulls from the boy’s flesh, the child screams so hard that it is no longer audible. Grimacing, James pushes the thing open all the way, until it catches.

            The boy falls back, gasping. James grabs for thick branch, then jams it back into the trap. It slams shut so resoundingly that the branch is snapped in half. Ryder’s skills cannot be doubted, that at least is sure.

            James takes a look at the boy’s leg. It is a mess of blood and bone. After thirty years at sea, he knows when a leg is lost.

            Lifting his head, he looks for sign of anyone else. Putting his hands to the sides of his mouth, he yells, “Hello! _Hello!_ ”

            His words echo back to him. There is no one. The child wandered. That is the only explanation. He has wandered a long, long way.

            James sighs, then takes a look at the child. His face is soaked with tears, and he is barely conscious. He looks at James with dazed, dark eyes. Almond shaped.

            Before he can even think about what he is doing, James picks him up. “Careful now,” he says, just for something to say. “Careful. Careful.”

            Holding the boy tight to him, James heads for home as quickly as he is able, the child weeping against his shoulders.

 

Pulling up on the reins, James has barely let Marcus stop when he swings his leg over his side, leaping down to the wet ground. The boy is swaying in the saddle, half conscious. There is no one outside, but James can hear voices coming from inside the apothecary.

            Reaching up, all James has to do is tug and the boy drops into his grasp. One arm under his legs, the other behind his back, James jogs the last few steps to the shop. Through the window, he sees Ezra trying to look interested as Esther prattles on about something.

            James kicks the door. “Wake! Open up!” he roars.

            Head jerking upwards, Ezra’s eyes find him. Scrambling, he comes running around the corner, and opens the door. For a moment, he just stares. “What on earth—“

            Pushing his way inside, James says, “I found him. He was in the woods alone—“

            Esther lets out an alarmed shock at the sight of the boy. “Are there more?!” she asks frantically, even though James has literally just said the opposite.

            Ezra presses back against the wall, giving James room to move by. “Esther, I’m sorry, you need to go. What happened to him, how was he—“

            As James slips behind the curtain, going to lay the child down, he hears Esther continue, “Are they coming for us—“

            James puts a hand to the boy’s head. He pulls off the hat, tossing it aside. The child has long hair, soaked with sweat. He gazes up at James, pained. Pushing the boy’s hair back from his forehead, James murmurs, “There’s a good lad.” He gives as small a smile as possible, not wanting to scare the boy. The child whimpers, but looks to him for comfort. “All will be well. There’s nowhere better you could be for such a thing.” Ezra emerges from the curtain, and James gives him a look. “Has she gone to squawk elsewhere?”

            “I sent her to get Fraser,” Ezra replies, rolling up his sleeves, focused solely on the boy’s wound. “Good _lord_.” He puts a hand to the boy’s calf, and the child startles away.

            “You’re fine,” James tells him. “He’ll take care of you.” James holds out a hand. The boy takes it. It feels unbelievably small in his own. James looks down at Ezra, nodding him on, and the apothecary continues his inspection.

            Eyes going grim, Ezra says what James already knows. “I have to take the foot. There’s no way he keeps it.” He comes around the table, nudging James’ legs aside as he crouches. Opening some drawers, he pulls out a roll of oiled cloth. He kicks the drawer closed as he stands, going to the end of the table. Laying the cloth on a surface out of the boy’s sight, Ezra unrolls it.

            All the tools of the trade, ones that James has been fortunate to never need. He knows all the names from his years at sea. Capital knife, catlin, saw, arterial forceps—this is going to be a bloody affair.

            “Look at this wound,” Ezra says in confused curiosity. He leans over it again. “What manner of animal did this? It would not have let him limp away if it had already done this to him.”

            “Fraser knows Abenaki, does he not?”

            “Yes, that’s why I sent Esther—“

            “More likely she stops to tell the whole town first—“ James tries to move away, to avoid Ezra’s question.

            The boy, though, holds tight. James looks down at him, so small and frightened. It is not the first time he has looked down at a child who suffers. Nearly every other time, he has walked away. It has not been his business.

            This time, he grimaces, and steps back to the tableside. “Good lad,” he says. “Brave lad. Keeping quiet. Good boy.”

            He can feel Ezra’s eyes on him. “What happened to him?”

            “That’s not important—“

            “McGraw. What happened to him?”

            James sighs, then turns his gaze back to Ezra. He knows he is about to shatter the man. “I found him in your woods. Back in February, you bought those metal traps. The wolves.”

            After a few seconds, the colour drains from Ezra’s face. He looks at the boy’s destroyed lower leg, jaw falling open. “Oh God.” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “Oh God, James—what have I done?”

            James barks, “None of that!” The old him takes over for a moment, growling and accepting no delays. “You can whip yourself over it later, but at the moment, this child is bleeding to death.”

            “Yes.” Ezra nods, shaken, but moving once more. “Yes. Quite right.”

            There are loud footfalls coming through the shop, then Fraser pushes aside the curtain. He takes in the scene, then says, “Bugger.”

            But then he is quickly shedding his waistcoat, putting on a smile. He brushes James aside as easily as a fly, moving in to take his place. Taking the boy’s hand, Fraser murmurs, “Kwai.”

            The child nods, and whispers, “Kwai.”

            “I’ll need you to hold him down, Mr. Moore,” Ezra says evenly, as he ties on his apron. Stepping up to the table, he removes the Capital knife. It shines in the light beaming down through the skylight.

            James nods, and steps into place. “Of course, Mr. Wake.” He waits, and the boy smiles a little at him, trying so very hard to be brave. “Good man,” James murmurs to him. “Good man.”

 

Fraser puts his hand down on Ezra’s shoulder. “It was a simple accident, lad. No use blaming yourself.”

            James holds the unconscious boy in his arms. He passed out halfway through the amputation. It was as fast a surgery as he has ever seen, but still it is a blessing that the boy lost consciousness.

            Ezra sits on a foot rest, up to his elbows in blood, a splash of it across his face. His face is blank, but not in the usual way. He is completely shut off from them, not seeming to be in the same world.

            Outside the door, James hears voices. Ever since the procedure ended, he has heard them.

            Fraser looks at Ezra, then sighs. “Well, you’ll come around or you won’t.” Straightening, he says, “Let’s face the mob, shall we, Mr. Moore?” Fraser heads to the door. James lingers a moment, seeing if Ezra is all right. Black Shuck comes up between his arms. Absently, Ezra scratches at his ear, and stares at the wall. “Mr. Moore.”

            Nodding, James follows Fraser outside, making sure the boy is well protected in his blanket.

            Most of the men in the village are standing outside, and some of the women too. “Are they coming, Alastair?” asks Walters bluntly.

            “If they are, it’s only to get their child and then leave again,” Fraser replies calmly.

            “How can you be so calm?” Mrs. Walters says, high pitched. “The children—“

            Raising his voice, Fraser says, “How many _bloody_ times do I have to tell you people that they’re not the bloody Iroquois?! The boy is Abenaki. Probably Pennacook, if I have to hazard a guess, and they’ve never given us any trouble, and they won’t now. The boy wandered off from his people, landed his foot in one of _your_ —“ He points at Ryder, who recoils. “Bloody traps. Lost his foot.”

            “And you think they won’t want revenge?” protests Ryder.

            “For heaven’s sake—the boy had an accident. That’s the long and short of it. If you all want to work yourself in circles for the next few days, worrying about savages coming out of the trees with bows and arrows, be my guest, but you’re going to get yourself in a fuss for nothing. Now, he’ll be staying with me and Lizzy until he’s fit to travel, and then Mr. Moore and I will take him back to his kin. If they have any issue with what happened to the boy, they can take it up with me and we’ll make amends.” Brushing off his hands dramatically, Fraser says, “Anything other than that, and you can keep it to yourselves! No use acting like chickens with your heads cut off like last time that poor half dead sod came wandering through here. Made absolute fools of yourself then. I won’t have you making a ruckus over one child. Now—off with you! Off!”

            Fraser actually shoos them away with his hands, like they are hens. Not looking entirely convinced, but not wanting to contend with Fraser’s scowl, they begin to disperse.

            Nodding James onwards, they start for Fraser’s house. Marcus, who was milling around the front of the shop, walks behind them.

            After a moment, Fraser says, “What did I tell you? They always act like idiots whenever the Indians are involved. The ten years I’ve lived here, not a single issue with the brown bastards, but someone even whispers ‘I heard there was a native within fifty miles’ and they act like the sky is falling.”

            “Mm.” James glances at him. “So I hear I’ll be joining you on an expedition.”

            Sheepish, Fraser responds, “I apologize, Mr. Moore. I could not think of anyone else in the moment. It really isn’t that far.”

            “How not far?”

            “They’ve a camp, about fifteen miles away.”

            “Jesus,” James says. “That close?”

            “For the love of God, did I not just stop complaining about how we’ve nothing to fear from those people?” Fraser just shakes his head. “Bloody Englishmen, always scared of anyone not born on her bloody soil.”

            James lifts the boy higher in his arms, and follows as Fraser grumbles.

 

James taps on the door twice before opening it. He says nothing, only looks inside.

            Behind the counter, Ezra is putting some bottles back up on the shelf. Since James was last here, he has cleaned his hands, though he has lost another shirt to blood. He wears what looks to be an old one that was stained with the same fluid, though cleaned many times.

            Glancing back briefly, Ezra asks quietly, “How does he fare?”

            Stepping into the shop, James pulls his hands behind his back. “Asleep. He woke for a little while, but he seems exhausted. He walked a long way.” He clears his throat. Probably the last thing Ezra wants to hear is about the boy walking. “Mrs. Fraser has him in bed. Set him up quite nicely.”

            With a nod, Ezra says, “Lizzy will take good care of him.” He brushes some dust off the top shelf with his fingers, then turns. He plucks his hat and coat off of their hooks, then bends down to look Black Shuck in the eyes. “Be good. Kill anyone who isn’t me.” The dog lets out a deep bark, and Ezra gives his head a scratch before following James out the door.

            He locks up, then they start walking. James takes Marcus by the reins. The horse is happy to go at a slow pace. Ever since January, he has been less amenable to high speeds. Today, James had to dig his heels into him multiple times to get him to reach a gallop.

            James sees Fredericks approaching, looking like he wants to speak with Ezra. James gives him one shake of the head, and Fredericks pivots easily, as if a voice in the other direction has called for him.

            They leave town in silence. It is a rare thing to see Ezra so—absent. Usually his façade is up so perfectly that there is little telling what he might actually be thinking. The fact that he is not even trying tells James how truly upset he is.        

            After a few minutes, James starts talking. “During our quest for the _Urca_ , we had to take another ship for her cannons. The _Andromache_. I’ve told you this story before. The crew who had themselves locked in the bunker. The slaves who helped us get them out.” James looks to see if Ezra is listening, but the other man does not react. “An explosion occurred. The _Andromache_ was blasted apart, and we had to make our escape. Only the other ship’s mast was tangled in our rigging. I went to cut it loose. I succeeded. I’ve told you that part as well. What I’ve not told you is another man went with me.”

            That catches Ezra’s attention. From the corner of his eyes, James sees him lift his head slightly.

            “Billy Bones went with me. Actually, he went first. Brave man, Billy Bones. I liked him a long time, until just before that night. I’d discovered that he had learned some—personal information about me. Actually, I wasn’t even sure exactly what he’d learned. But I was desperate to know. I thought he would get in my way. He was a man of conscience, which I am not. So, there we were, middle of a storm—another ship, the _Scarborough,_ coming for us—and the both of us were over the side, nearly drowning. And do you know what I did? The two of us, alone in that storm—when I should have been thinking of keeping us all alive, cutting us loose. Instead, I asked him what he knew. There was a letter in question, that he had seen. I asked him what was in it. He told me that I knew what was in the letter. And I did, and it would have destroyed—everything I was trying to accomplish. Then another wave hit us. I barely hung on myself, but Billy, he started to go. I grabbed him. I did grab him. I had his hand. Then he was gone. I didn’t even hear him make a noise. One moment I had his hand, and the next the sea had taken him. Only I don’t know that it did.”

            Ezra says, “I don’t understand.”

            “I don’t know if I let him go or not,” James says honestly. “It was an accident. I didn’t toss him off the side, I didn’t compel the wave to hit him. But I had his hand, and I knew he could ruin me. So did his hand slip out of mine or did I let him go? There is a part of me that says of course I tried to save him, I wouldn’t let a man die over something like that. But that’s a piece of me long since drowned. I killed one of my best friends because he dared defy me. Of course I had it in me to let him go. Only I have no idea which one it was. I was glad for his disappearance, and when he washed ashore I was not in the least pleased. He had his revenge on me, he did. Too right.”

            A few seconds go by, and Ezra inquires, “Why this story?”

            “Because those are the kinds of accidents I have,” James answers with a glance at his companion. “Every one of them. No telling if they were a simple twist of fate, or some act of malice on my part. I lose very little sleep over them, because I am a monster. Meanwhile, you—who had no intent to harm, save some animals on your property—are going to beat yourself like a penitent over a simple accident.”

            Ezra grimaces. He does not want to listen. James recognizes his expression—not from Ezra’s face, but from making it so much himself.

            At last, Ezra bursts out, “How could I have been so _stupid_?”

            “It wasn’t—“

            “I don’t even let the fucking dog go past the treeline because of those traps. What if someone from the village went walking through there, or if _you_ had—“

            “It’s your property, and they’d be trespassing—“

            Angrily, Ezra spits out, “It’s just _land_. It’s all just—“ The angrier he gets, the more common his accent gets. “Fucking arbitrary lines, McGraw, it’s all just fucking made up. It doesn’t mean a thing!” He growls, and his accent snaps back into place. “I have crippled that child for life. For the rest of his life. A piece of him is missing because I worried that wolves might come after my dogs, which can already bloody well fend for themselves! God damn it!”

            He pulls off his hat, and throws it into a half melted snowbank. James looks back at it, but does not make a comment. After a moment, Ezra turns on his heel, and goes back to snatch it out of the snow. James waits for him to catch up.

            Frowning, Ezra flicks the wetness from his hat. He shakes his head in misery. “Twenty years. Twenty years I have been a surgeon and I’ve never had to do an amputation on a child. Bad enough to put him through that suffering. But that I caused it—“

            “Stop this. What about a life unencumbered by shame?”

            “Don’t be fucking daft!” Ezra snaps. “It’s one thing to not give a damn what a person thinks because I like it up the arse. It’s another to know I’ve injured someone for no fucking reason.”

            “Can’t say as I’m surprised.”

            “Surprised about what?”

            With a straight face, James replies, “That you like it up the ass instead of the other way around. You have a look about you somehow.”

            Ezra stares at him, then breaks into tired laughter. “Don’t—don’t make me laugh.”

            “I’ll do what I please. What do you intend to do about it, you self-flagellating sodomite?”

            Slumping with the force of his sigh, Ezra says, “I intend to get very drunk. Do you care to join?”

            “That doesn’t sound bad at all.”

            Ezra runs a hand through his black hair, shaking it out. It gets much longer and he could tuck it back behind his ears. “I have to take the rest of the traps in first.”

            “Oh, Jesus, leave it for tomorrow—“

            “What if they come looking for him tonight? What if they follow his tracks?”

            James admits, “There’s a thought.”

            “How bad is it?” James just gives him a look. Ezra already knows the answer to his question. Crestfallen, Ezra mutters, “Fuck.”

            He looks so distraught that James does something he was not sure he was capable of. He reaches  over and pats Ezra on the back. Once, twice, then he takes back his hand.

            James is a little uncomfortable. He is not one for physical displays of any kind.

            But it seems to relax Ezra, who looks at his soggy hat, then sighs. “I just have to let the dog out for a few minutes. You can get started without me, or you can come collect traps with me.”

            “Do you know where they all are?”

            “I check them every day.”

            James looks at the fading light, and shrugs. “I suppose.”

            “Thank you, James.”

            He knows that Ezra is not thanking him for volunteering to go looking for traps. He thinks that Ezra knows he understands this as well. So James just grunts.

            They walk the rest of the way in silence, though not as fraught with tension as before. As they walk down the lane to Ezra’s house, James asks him what the hat ever did to him. Ezra reiterates how much he hates wearing the things. That the only thing sillier would be to wear a wig.

            As they turn the corner to the house, Ezra says, “That’s odd.”

            “What?”

            “She’s being quiet.” Ezra pulls out his key, bounding up the steps.

            Meaning to take Marcus around to the stable, James says, “I’ll just—“

            He hears Ezra’s gasp and stops cold. Ezra fumbles with the key, then shoves open the door, running inside. Letting go of the reins, James follows to the doorstep, wondering why the hell he does not go about armed.

            What he sees could not be solved by sword, though. Ezra drops on the floor by Cu Sith. She writhes spastically, eyes rolled back. White foam comes from the sides of her mouth.

            Ezra, no regard for whether the dog is rabid or not, lifts her right into his lap. “No,” he murmurs. “No no no no. No you don’t. Oh my darling, stop that. Stop. Please don’t. Not yet. Not yet.” He cringes as she seizes, holding her close to his chest. “My darling, don’t. Please—bevakasha, motek. Please.”

            Ezra rocks her back and forth as she seizes, staring at the floor instead of at her.

            “Don’t leave me here,” he pleads. “Don’t leave me. My darling. Please.”

            The dog begins to settle, and her eyes come down. Tongue lolling out, she whimpers in Ezra’s arms.

            He buries his face in her fur, murmuring over and over again, “My darling. My darling.”

            _I’m intruding_.

            James steps back over the threshold. He pulls the door across, then goes to sit on the front step, thinking that in time Ezra will ask him to stay or go home, depending on the circumstance.

            He worries. He cannot help but remember that Ezra said the very same words when he asked to die.

_It’s just a dog._

_Not to him_.

            James rubs his hands together, and looks up at the orange sky.


	17. Beyond The Edge

_April 20, 1721_

_Tomorrow morning Mr. Fraser and I will venture forth past the Edge. The child is barely well enough for travel, but is understandably eager to go home. I will go armed, despite Fraser’s insistence that these people are peaceful. He is a good man, and I value his opinion on a great many matters, but when it comes to people he is far too forgiving. I will not go into the unknown without my pistol and sword._

_I went to see the boy today, to see how he fares. Fraser tells me that he is known to his people as Plawinno. No idea about the spelling of that. As he tells it, he earned the name by being a late birth, as the word apparently means one who delays. It is fitting for the child, who by now is very late in coming home. We will do what we can to return him to his kin, and hopefully not be killed in the process. If he is any indication of his kin, I would be relieved, though a child is rarely an indication of the adult._

_I respect how stoically he is taking his injury. He is clearly upset by it, but since the incident itself he has not shed tears, as the Frasers say it, and merely repeats his request to go home. When I came to visit, Mr. Fraser was out, and it was Mrs. Fraser who was our intermediary. She knows some of the language, but far less than her husband, so we did not have much of a conversation. The boy looked pleased to see me, though. He kept touching my beard, and I kept hearing the same word as he spoke. After encountering the same phenomena with the natives of the West Indies, I was able to ascertain what he meant. I pointed to my hair and repeated the word the best I was able, which I believe sounded something like mikwigen. He was very cheered by my saying his word, and I believe his name for me now simply means red. _

_~~I am concerne~~ _

_It seems a small thing to be bothered by, but I wonder how Mr. Wake will fare in our absence. His dog remains ill, increasingly given over to seizures, and he is not bearing it well. He takes her with him to the apothecary in his wagon, unwilling to leave her alone. When I went to visit tonight, he spoke little, except to confess that he believed she might have a tumor of the brain. In which case, there is nothing he can do for her. He asked me to take care of the boy, and gave me instruction as to his injury should anything go awry, but I could discern where his concern truly lay. He apologized for not being a better host. It is unlike him to be so consumed by something, and given what I have seen him capable of I wonder what would happen if the animal does in fact die._

_It is late, and I must be up with the dawn. If I am to be slaughtered by Indians tomorrow, than this shall be my last entry. I apologize for nothing, and leave my belongings, such as they are, to Mr. Wake. As you are the only one who will know where to find this, then I say this to you. I hope you are well. My monster has not fled, but I believe the letter has begun to be erased from his forehead. With my respect and gratitude, James McGraw._

It is a very different experience, to journey past the edge of English territory.

            The road to Siddeston always feels lonely, but to travel this closed-in path through the woods is the opposite. James feels as though there could be something watching at every moment. The animals are louder here, and the completely untamed nature of the woods discomfits him. Even after all these years, he cannot completely shed the part of him that is London born and raised.

            The surprise is how easily Fraser takes to it. When James thinks of him, it is a cheerful, slightly daft old man who is extremely comfortable in his place. James does not think of him doing anything unexpected. Only the man guides his horse confidently forward through the trees, over fallen logs and up hills, towards what frightens the hell out of the other villagers.

            Plawinno sits in front of James, wrapped in a blanket. Nearly everything he owned was too bloodied to keep, so he is wearing clothes from the village children that Fraser bullied their parents out of. All he has left is his hat. He has been quiet, occasionally calling out something to Fraser in a polite tone. He holds the pommel of the saddle, keeping his injured leg carefully out to the side where it will not brush up against Marcus.

            James asked Fraser earlier how he knew the way. “Best to know our neighbours,” Fraser replied. He told James about how in Portsmouth, he had worked with an Indian who went by the name Timothy. He had been taken as a child, and worked as a servant for one of Fraser’s colleagues. Out of curiosity, Fraser engaged him in conversation and began to learn the Abenaki language from him. In fact, he told James that they are not even called the Abenaki, but that is a corruption of their word for themselves. The call themselves the people of the dawn. Given their proximity to the east, James thought it a fitting name.

            When the colleague moved on, Timothy came to work for Fraser, and they continued their acquaintance. Fraser went so far as to call the man a friend—“As clever as any white man I’ve known, Mr. Moore, and probably cleverer than the majority I’ve met”—and told the story of how he died when the pox came through Portsmouth again.

            Fraser said that when they came to The Edge, he and his wife had been in the town a month when he noticed tracks out back of his house in the snow, heading into the woods. He told his wife and everyone else that he was going hunting, and set off on his own to follow them.

            “And what did your wife say to that?” James could not help but ask.

            “Lizzy thought I was mad,” Fraser replied, “but then again, she usually does.”

            He walked for half a day before coming upon two young men who were understandably startled by his presence. Fraser engaged them in conversation. Their dialect was a little different than Timothy’s, but not so different that Fraser did not understand. They had been curious about the village. Fraser was curious about them. He asked to meet their chief. They were, of course, reluctant, so the one stayed with him while the other went to ask if the chief would meet him. The man came to him at nightfall.

            “He was worried about what would happen if I found their settlement. I can’t say I blame him. Quite reasonable man. Several years older than I am now. Passed on two years ago. We had ourselves a chat, and I explained that I’m not English, I’m a Scotsman, and told him some of the things the English have done to us, and that I had no quarrel with him for England’s sake. He wanted to know that we weren’t planning to attack. I said, God no. Can you imagine our little village traipsing out into the woods, trying to take on the Abenaki Confederation?”

            “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Fraser, but I can’t quite believe you, traipsing out into the woods.”

            Fraser laughed at that, and said, “They’re just people, Mr. Moore. With the same wants and needs as most of us. They’re heathens, make no mistake, but so were we all before the Lord Almighty saved us. Well, the chief and I parted on good terms, and once a year I would take my hunting trip and make sure all was well with our neighbours. I’ve never told anyone but Lizzy. I think Wake suspects, but that man might be a witch, for all the things he knows. This is to be kept between you and I, sir. I’d lose my job, my betters ever found out. The Abenaki sided with the French in Queen Anne’s War, after all.”

            _What a peculiar man_ , James thinks, following Fraser up a hill. He has always thought Fraser a little dotty, but the man is entirely nonchalant about walking into the woods to meet people everyone else is certain are bloodthirsty killers. James appreciates a man who knows his own mind and follows it, regardless of others’ expectations.

            Fraser pulls his horse to a stop, lifting his hand. James tugs back on the reins. They are still in the seemingly never ending woods for a long moment.

            On the wind, so soft James can barely hear, comes the call of a voice.

            Plawinno jolts upwards, speaking loudly. “All right, lad,” Fraser says, giving his horse a kick to the side. He crests the hill, then nods. “I believe we have our men, Mr. Moore.” With a frown, James joins him. The coiled thing in his belly will not disappear until he is certain that they are safe.

            When he reaches the top of the hill, he finds a valley laid out before them. He can see for miles between the mountains, the river snaking between the sloping peaks. It is a breath taking scene, he supposes, the trees and land and water all stretched out beneath the grey sky. He pays little attention to the landscape, though. What he really sees are the three figures in the distance, down the river.

            Fraser puts his hands to his mouth, and hollers something at the top of his lungs. It echoes through the valley, and James sees the three figures turn. Picking up his reins again, Fraser prompts his horse onwards, saying, “I believe we got their attention, Mr. Moore.”

            _No bloody kidding_ , James thinks with a grimace, tsking at Marcus to move him.

            As they come down the hill, Plawinno starts waving his both his arms. He grabs the pommel abruptly again as they come over a bump. James presses his hands against it. “Hold on,” he instructs as he navigates his way down the relatively steep incline.

            When they reach the bottom, they disappear into the trees again, but he can hear the voices of men, louder this time, but still at a distance. They ride through the woods, until they come out by the river a few minutes later.

            By this point, the Indians have come close enough that James can make out some features, though they are across the river. There are three—a man closer to his age, and then two younger men. The first man roars, “PLAWINNO!” at the top of his lungs, running a few feet into the water, but he can go no further. It comes up to his knees.

            The boy is waving again, calling back. He has begun to cry.

            Amid it all, James asks Fraser, “Are we safe to cross?”

            “It will be difficult, but I don’t see why not.” Fraser grumbles, guiding his horse down to the water’s edge. “Had to be in April, though, didn’t it. Christ save us.”

            That seems to contradict his optimism, but it is not as though there is a bridge nearby.

            James lifts Plawinno so that he is side saddle, being careful of his stump. Taking the reins, he points to the water, and says, “Keep your legs _up_.” He raises his hand, trying to illustrate his point. The boy nods, sniffling, but lifts his legs as high as he can.

            James waits to see how Fraser fares before immediately riding into the river. The water moves by quickly. Not enough to be dangerous if it stays shallow enough. Too deep, though, and it could be quite hazardous indeed.

            Fraser, without any ado, rides his horse directly into the water. The horse whinnies with displeasure at what James can only assume is fairly damned cold water, but Fraser says, “Onwards, old boy!” The horse is up to his knees within a short distance, but keeps going.

            The Indians on the other side of the water are watching, looking concerned. The man waiting in the river still calls to Plawinno, but his expression is grave. That tells James more than Fraser’s fearlessness.

            _To hell with it._

            James kicks into Marcus’ sides, getting him into the water. Immediately, the horse bucks. James wraps an arm around Plawinno, hissing at the horse, “So help me God, you don’t get us across this river, I’ll have you for meat. Now keep going.” Unimpressed, Marcus plunges in.

            James is in his old clothes, including his boots. He is used to the water, and when it rises up the leather boots, he does not worry at first. Then he sees Fraser, whose horse abruptly drops about half a foot, so that the animal’s head is barely above the water.

            Stopping, with the water all the way up to Marcus’ chest, James says, “Fuck.”

            “Quite all right!” Fraser calls back, even though he is in the river up to his stomach. “Come on, old boy, you can do it. Keep going, you stubborn old bastard.”

            The horse struggles, but does not fall any further. He remains at that depth for most of the crossing, until he begins to rise again.

            _He can’t stay on the saddle_.

            “All right,” James says. He looks at Plawinno, and gestures with his hands the best he is able. The boy is wide eyed, having watched Fraser’s horse nearly go under. “You have to go up.” Plawinno looks at his shoulders, then gulps. He lets James lift him, though, until he sits on top of James’ shoulders. Pulling the boy’s arms down, James wraps them around his own neck. “Hold on.”

            He gives the boy’s hand a squeeze, then charges into the water.

            Buggering _fuck_. It has been a _long_ time since he was in water this cold. All those years in the Indies, he got used to the ocean being warmer than the waters he trained in. He thinks about the waters around England, tells himself to focus on not drowning himself, the boy, or his horse, and pushes onwards.

            When they come to the same swift drop that Fraser came across, there is one terrible moment, as they lurch down, that James thinks, _this would be a ridiculous way to die_. Gasping, Plawinno wraps his arms around his head, covering his eyes, and James is now up past his balls in ice water and unable to see.

            Marcus is panicking under him, scrambling for purchase. James, who has had much worse, keeps a steady hand on the reins, and takes hold of Plawinno’s arms in a steely grip. Tugging them down so he can see, he gives Marcus a harsh kick. “Keep going!” he roars at him. “Keep fucking going!”

            The animal is true. He puts one foot in front of the other, and they slowly make their way across the rushing waters. James encourages him, saying, “Good lad—keep on now!” His voice is somewhere between reassuring and iron willed.

            It gets them the rest of the way.

            As they begin to rise from the water, James breathes sharply through his nose. He is soaked all the way up to mid torso, the child clinging to his head. Marcus plods forwards, quickening his pace now that he is not in danger of drowning.

            The man in the water is waiting anxiously for them. His hair is shaved along the sides and back, kept long on top and braided. He wears a blanket near identical to the one that Plawinno had.

            When they reach him, Plawinno reaches down for him, and the man reaches up. James being the intermediary, has to lean down while also trying to facilitate the transfer and not do more hurt to the boy’s injury.

            But then Plawinno is in the man’s arms. Holding him so close that there is no telling how the boy is able to breathe, the man rocks him back and forth. His eyes stream with tears. He kisses the boy’s face, and holds him tight.

            James rides the rest of the way out of the river. As soon as they are on land, he pats Marcus on his shivering neck. “Good man,” he murmurs.

            He finds Mr. Fraser joining his side with a small smile. “Just think,” Fraser remarks with chattering teeth, “we’ll do the same thing on the journey home.”

            James snorts, then glances back at the father and child in the water.

 

As it turns out, Fraser’s descriptions of the natives turn out to be completely accurate.

            James sits off to the side of the fire, in dry clothes made of animal skin while his hang to dry. They have eaten, some kind of dried meat and dough, and now they merely sit in the night time, Fraser and the others talking, James content to listen to their speech.

            If he had to guess, James would say there are perhaps thirty people in the settlement. They live in permanent tents that look to be covered in bark. He cannot guess how long they have been here, but for all he knows it could be as long as Dudley the Third.

            Everyone turned out when they arrived. They were overjoyed to see the child. Horrified at his injury, but glad to see him home. Fraser spoke to them, and then everyone seemed to turn to James. Cautious, he waited, and then people started clapping him on the shoulder and back. He just nodded, uncomfortably, until they finished.

            By then it was too late to make it back for the night, so they will stay until tomorrow morning. James is no longer worried. Everyone seems very kind. Of course, most of them keep finding an excuse to touch his hair or beard. The children kept touching the hairs on his arms. He weathers it patiently as he is able. He is their guest, after all.

            Pulling his blanket closer, he watches as everyone laughs at something. Fraser claps his hands a few times in merriment. They are a handsome people. High cheekbones, those black, almond shaped eyes. Nearly all the men have the same hairstyle as Plawinno’s father, though the younger ones do not, their hair left long all over. The women are beautiful, quick to smile and laugh.

            The woman beside him says something to the others, and there is more laughter. James can tell he is involved somehow, and looks to Fraser for explanation. With a snort, Fraser says, “She’s asking her sisters if she had your child, if he would have her hair or yours.”

            James looks at her, her spirited eyes, and for a moment he sees the same thing that led Miranda. That lack of care for convention. He sees a woman who is free.

            “Yours, madam,” James replies. “Better that he be beautiful like you.”

            Fraser translates, and she smacks James lightly on the arm. But she smiles.

            James pushes himself up. “Where can a man go to take a piss?”

            Fraser points into the darkness. “Go down to the river.”

            “I won’t offend them? There’s no water god or something?”

            “For heaven’s sake, Moore, we all have to relieve ourselves somewhere.” Fraser speaks to the others, and they burst into laughter again.

            James pulls the blanket closer around his shoulders, walking in his soft brown shoes into the woods. They are not leather exactly. He has seen Ezra wear something similar, and wonders if the man has encountered these people before. If so, he has never said anything about it.

            “Mkwigen.”

            James turns, knowing the word is meant for him.

            Plawinno’s father walks to him. James has not seen much of them since they reached the camp. They disappeared with the boy’s mother and his brothers. The mother did not cry, though the father did. Strange.

            But the man’s tears have gone now. He comes up to James, his face somber. He inhales through his nose, then puts his hand to his chest, patting it a few times. The man lifts his shoulders, looking a little frustrated.

            Language. James nods, not sure what to say.

            The man reaches out, and puts his hand on James’ shoulder. He leaves it there a moment, then pulls back, clearing his throat. He speaks, and James does not have to understand the words to know what he means.

            “You’re welcome,” James says quietly.

            With a smile, the man turns and walks away.

            James watches him go, and thinks, _that I have done this thing_. He stands a moment, still, in the darkness.


	18. Epiphany

“Mr. Moore.”

            James does as Fraser has, bringing his horse to a stop. They are so close to the village that he can hear Ryder working in his shop. The clang of metal.

            Fraser leans forward, a small furrow between his brows. He pauses, then says, “I have something to say to you that I’m sure you will not believe. But I’ll say it nonetheless.”

            “What is that, sir?”

            “You’re a good man.”

            James bursts out laughing.

            They left the camp this morning, traversing the river again, only this time they had a dry set of clothes to change into on the other side. Before they went, Plawinno gave James an embrace about the neck, which James responded to with an awkward pat to the back. But he was glad the child made it home alive.

            Coughing as he tries to collect himself, James says, “You’re right. I don’t believe you.”

            “You did a good thing, Moore. There are some men who would have left that child in the woods for fear of who would come looking for him or simple indifference because of his race. And not many men would have followed me into the woods, not knowing what they met, only taking the word of a foolish old man.”

            With a shake of the head, James says with a lopsided grin, “Mr. Fraser, you were right about the Indians, I will give you that. But you are not right about me.”

            “It can’t be that bad.”

            James snorts. “If I told you the half of it, you’d build the gallows yourself.”

            Raising a brow, Fraser asks, “That bad, then?”

            “Terrible, Mr. Fraser. It is terrible, indeed.”

            “Well—nevertheless—I believe a man can be redeemed.” A moment later, Fraser says, “Don’t roll your eyes at me, laddie! Listen to your elders. A man can do terrible things. But if he’s sorry for them, and makes amends, he’ll be welcomed into the kingdom of heaven.”

            “Mr. Fraser—“ James looks at him with actual affection. “You are a good man, and a brave one. So I will be honest with you. I’m not sorry for what I’ve done. I don’t imagine I ever will be. And if that means I end up burning for it, so be it. But I can only lie about who I am to a certain extent. Claiming to be a good man—even for me, that’s taking it a bit far.” He nods to the village. “Shall we?”

            Fraser narrows his eyes, saying, “I’ll wear you down yet, James.”

            They continue on, and James says, “I’d like to see you try, Alastair.”

 

“You stupid old man!” Lizzy says, slapping Fraser across the chest. Then she throws her arms around him.

            Fraser rubs her back, looking sheepishly at James. “There, there, Lizzy.”

            “Don’t there, there me anything, you reckless, idiotic—“ She pulls back, brushing at his cloak. “I was worried sick about you. I even sat in prayers this morning listening to that pitiful parson moan about the state of man.” She runs her hands over his face, not caring that someone else is watching. “You got the bairn to his people in good health?”

            Fraser takes her hands, kissing each one of them. “We did, my dear. We were quite fine. Not a moment of trouble.”

            Brow furrowing, Lizzy looks up at James, who remains atop of Marcus. “Is that the truth, Mr. Moore? Not a moment of trouble?”

            “None, madam,” James replies.

            She looks between them, and sighs. “You’re both liars. God save you.” She nods towards their house. “Mr. Moore, ben the house for dinner.”

            “Thank you, Mrs. Fraser, but honestly—“ James gestures across the town. “I am eager to be in my own house again.”

            “Of course.” She comes over, and smiles up at him. “Thank you for keeping an eye about him, James.”

            “Who’s to say I didn’t keep an eye on him?” Fraser protests.

            “I am, you daft old thing. You can barely remember where your reading glass is half the time, and then you go running into the woods after Indians.”

            James says, “You should be very proud of him, Mrs. Fraser. He is a very brave man.”

            She smiles a little, then turns back to Fraser. “Aye, old man.” She slips her arm through her husband’s, leaning against him, and Fraser raises his hand in a friendly farewell. James is turning Marcus to leave when Lizzy calls out, “Mr. Moore!”

            He pulls back on the reins. She is probably going to invite him to dinner within the next day or so. “Yes, Mrs. Fraser.”

            Looking concerned, Lizzy says, “Would you maybe look in on Mr. Wake on your way home, if you have a few minutes? I went to visit yesterday. I think he’s in need of a friendly face.”

            With a pause, James replies, “Of course.” He nods to them in farewell, then clicks in his cheek to get Marcus moving.

 

He is glad to be on the road home. The thought makes him smile slightly in amusement. To think of this place as home. This little place out in the middle of nowhere. In New England.

            _My life has never gone as I expected_ , James realizes. But then, he reasons, does anyone’s?

            Taking the turn off to Ezra’s, James looks at the trees, and makes a discovery. Here and there, he can see tiny green buds starting to appear. The snow has mostly given way, revealing large swaths of brown earth. Spring is actually here. It is new to him, to see so visible a change in the seasons. In the West Indies, it was always warm. Sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. The trees and grass were always green.

            But here—he has seen fall, and he has seen winter. Now he will finally see what this place is like when it is green.

            Marcus walks down the lane, and James thinks of his new shoes. Fraser called them mo chasens. He will have to ask Ezra how he came across his. If he has met the Abenaki and held back, or if he has some other story to tell. Whatever the case, James likes them a damn sight more than the shoes that have heels.

            He comes around the corner to the house, and murmurs, “Whoa.” In the late afternoon, he can see into the unshuttered windows. There is no movement inside. Nor is there any barking.

            Instead, from out back of the house, James hears two rhythmic noises. First a sharp _thunk_ , and then a _shhk_. Over and over, the same two noises, a few seconds apart. James knows what it is immediately.

            Dismounting, he leads Marcus to the front of the house. He ties the reins to the porch. He gives the horse’s neck a rub before sighing and venturing around the side of the house.

            The first thing he sees is Black Shuck. He lays on the ground, his head on his paws. He looks over at James as he emerges in the backyard, but does not make a sound.

            Ezra drives his shovel into the ground again, tossing dirt aside onto the pile. He is digging the hole on the eastern side of the yard. On the ground is a large bundle, made from one of the blankets that Cu Sith always slept upon. It is sewn shut, but James can see some blood that has leaked onto the dirt through it.

            Paying him no attention, Ezra swipes at his eyes, and continues digging. He bites his lower lip, sleeves rolled up, wearing only his shirt and breeches. He does not even have his shoes.

            James watches him a moment, then says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

            Ezra nods once, blinking a few times. He digs out another shovelful, tossing it aside, then wipes again at his eyes. “Her suffering was unbearable. It could not be allowed to continue.”

            James has seen this man hack off a corpse’s arm with an axe, and now here he is, barely holding himself together because of an animal. The truth of it is, though, James does not think it to be strange. Knowing Ezra, it makes perfect sense.

            “Would you like help digging?”

            Shaking his head, Ezra says tightly, “No, Mr. McGraw. This is a task I must complete myself.”

            Understanding, James steps back. “I’ll leave you be.”

            Still not looking up, Ezra nods again, and flicks his hair back from his face with a sniff.

            James retreats, going to untie Marcus. Taking the reins, he puts a foot into the stirrup, then stops. For a moment, he hangs there, hands on the saddle, one foot in the air. He glances back the way he came.

            Telling himself to leave the man alone, James climbs up into the saddle, and heads for home.

 

_April 22, 1721_

_As it turns out, I was not slaughtered by Indians. After having encountered them and having listened to Alastair insist over the last eight months as to their civility, I feel quite stupid for being so concerned as to my safety._

_We struck out yesterday morning for the camp, fifteen miles away. As it happened_

 

            James gets that far, and stops. He is not of a mood to write. Frankly, he is not of a mood to do anything. He has tried to read, and found himself too restless. He cleaned Marcus’ stall, even though he is tired, make no mistake about it. When he laid down, though it was not terribly late, he just stared at the ceiling, tapping his fingers on his chest.

            He thought that recounting the last two days would help, but the same agitation remains. Everywhere he goes in the small house, it is like he should not be there.

            _I should not have left_.

            James runs his hands over his shaved head, closing his eyes. He is being ridiculous. There was no reason for him to stay. The man wanted to be alone.

            What is he even doing? The two of them have shed more blood than some small armies, and here James is worrying about Ezra, and Ezra is likely in tears over a dog. It is complete and utter foolishness. The both of them should know better. They are certainly old enough, and unsentimental enough.

            He left a candle burning outside, in the little lantern. James never does that. Waste of bloody candles, it is. He knows Ezra will not come over tonight, and even if he did, he would likely have his own lantern. Still, though—he found himself putting the light out for him. Just in case.

            _What is_ wrong _with me tonight_? James asks.

            It has been a strange few days, is all. The stress of finding the child in the woods, returning him to his family—that must be it. He has had far worse, but it is the only answer he has for his mood. He is not acting like himself.

            _Be honest. You don’t know who you are from day to day anymore._

            James puts his head in his hands and mutters, “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will have strength.” He has to stop acting without thinking. There is no reason for him to be this anxious. He needs to accept that. If he does, the feeling will stop. _Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears_.

            He tells himself that. He thinks it, he tries to convince himself that there is nothing wrong.

            And _still_ —this thing in his stomach—

            James lifts his head at the approach of footsteps outside. It is coming along the house, not from the lane. For a moment, he does not move. He listens to a murmur of a voice, then hears the opening and closing of the gate.

            There is a soft knock at the door. For some reason, James takes another moment to get up. This thing in his stomach has not lessened. If anything, it has bloomed, stretching out across his body in all directions.

            Shaking his head, he pushes himself up from the table. He straightens his shirt, then walks across the floor. Unlatching the door, he opens it up, and then feels as though he has been punched in the gut.

            Looking at Ezra, James realizes something. In a second, he takes in the sight of the man. His black hair, long enough to turn a touch wavy. His almond shaped eyes, raw with his sadness, the nose that hooks subtly at the end. His lips, now pressed together, but which look as though they were formed to curve into a wicked smile. A face and body that are slender yet strong, clothed in a black jacket that sets off the darkness of his features, the candle light playing off them too and highlighting the dramatic bones of his face. Somehow, until this exact moment in time, James had not put it all together.

            He realizes that Ezra Wake is beautiful.

            Ezra says softly, “James—I am terribly sorry. Please forgive my selfishness. I did not even inquire as to your journey. I’ve no excuse.”

            James is so thrown by his epiphany that he does not know what to say. No, this cannot happen. Or Christ, he does not know. He has no idea what to think.

            Ezra apparently takes his silence for a rebuke, because he winces, dropping his eyes. “I know, I am not a very good friend—“

            “You are,” James replies. “You are indeed.” He shakes his head. “There is no need to apologize.”

            Frowning, his head bowed, Ezra asks, “Is everyone well? The child?”

            “Made it back to his people. Quite safe.”

            “Good,” Ezra murmurs. “Good.”

            He stands there, and he looks small, and young. Anyone else, James would shake him, tell him to get a hold of himself. He cannot imagine doing that to Ezra.

            Grimacing, very aware that this is out of character, James reaches out and puts his hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Go home,” he says, and he is astounded by how gentle his voice sounds. That cannot be his voice. Squeezing lightly, he lets go.

            Ezra gazes down at the doorframe, then nods. He puts his hands to his forehead. “God—I’ve barely thought of that boy, and here I am, falling apart on account of a dog. What is wrong with me? What about me is so—impossibly broken that I can care about the one, and not the other?” He drops his hands, walking back down the steps. “I’m not asking you, James, I’m just asking the fucking stars. Because I don’t have an answer.”

            He opens the gate, where Black Shuck sits, waiting for him. James wants to tell him to stop, but at the same time there is a voice inside commanding that he do no such thing.

            He calls out, “Ezra.”

            The man stops at the edge of the fence, looking back. Yes—he is lovely. James wonders how he could not have seen it before. Or if he has, and simply refused to acknowledge it.

            For lack of anything better, James says, “It’s a lang road that’s no goat a turnin’.”

            Tilting his head, Ezra asks, “What does that mean?”

            Feeling a bit foolish, James shrugs. “It is a thing my mother always said. The last thing she said to me before she died. It means—not to lose heart, even when things seem grim.” James scowls, crossing his arms. “I know that sounds ridiculous, coming from my mouth. But it was all I could think of.”

            A few seconds pass, then Ezra asks, “Say it again?”

            Raising his head, he meets Ezra’s gaze in the darkness. “It’s a lang road that’s no goat a turnin’.”

            Ezra thinks about it, then nods. “Laila tov,” he says quietly, turning away. “Chaver sheli.”

            He watches the two dark figures disappear into the black woods, then steps back inside. Shutting the door, he latches it, then stands there. Eventually, he lets his head rest against the wood. “God damn it,” he mutters. “ _No_.”

            But it is too late, and he knows it.


	19. Crime and Punishment

James walks into town a little after six. He thought he could stand the quiet of his house, but it turned out to be all for naught. He forced himself to write down the account of his travels with Fraser and Plawinno to the Indians, in as much detail as he could.

            Only his thoughts kept drifting to last night. As they still do.

            He does not have his cloak. It is a warm evening, and after the long winter, he wants to be rid of the damned thing. He has no hat either, though he knows it to be rude. He cannot stand hats. Christ, it is a unwelcome mood he is in.

            As he passes the Fredericks’ house, he finds the man out on his front step with a pipe. “Evening, sir,” James says, slowing.

            Raising his pipe, Fredericks says, “Evening.”

            They both raise their heads at the sound of cheers coming from the tavern. “What’s going on there?”

            “Mr. and Mrs. Ryder have just had their fifth child. A son. He’s quite happy about it.”

            James grimaces, looking in the direction he was headed. It might be good to be distracted by a crowd. Then again, it might just irritate him and put him in an even worse mood than he already finds himself. “Why don’t you join them?”

            Humble as ever, Fredericks replies, “Oh, you know me, sir. Happier left on my own.”

            Narrowing his eyes, James turns to face the man dead on. “Will.”

            His gaze innocent, Fredericks says, “Yes, sir?”

            Knowing he is a hypocrite for asking, but not caring in the least, James nods to Fredericks’ forehead. “How did you actually get that?”

            After a moment, the guileless façade slips away into something far more sly. Putting his elbows on his thighs, Fredericks leans forward with a crooked smile. “The truth, Moore, is that I stole the collection plate from a church in Massachusetts. Did it for no other reason than I could. I tell people it was for my sick wife, and some of them believe it, but she had already swanned off with a cooper by then, leaving me with the girls. I kept them fed. I just don’t much like the church. Rules for this and that, and meanwhile they’re all just lining their pockets. So fuck it. I took their money. Got caught.” He waves at the brand on his forehead. “I’d fucking do it again too.”

            James smiles a little, giving him a nod. “Good evening, Mr. Fredericks.”

            “Same to you, sir.”

           

When he opens the door to the tavern, the noise that greets him is a clear indicator of what he should and should not have done. He should have stayed home where it was quiet.

            But the others see him, and Ryder puts up a hand. “Mr. Moore! Come celebrate! Have you heard the news?” He is already flush with drink.

            _Too late now_ , James thinks, and lets the door close behind him. “I have, sir. Congratulations to you and your wife.” The one table is full, so he sits down at the next. He nods behind the counter. “Evening, Tess.”

            “Evening, Mr. Moore,” she replies, going to fill a glass. Still has not thawed to him entirely, but comes closer every day.

            When she brings it to him, she stops and eyes him. “Are you all right?”

            James looks up, the glass already halfway to his lips. “Do I not look all right?”

            “No,” she says bluntly. “You look peaky.”

            “Some drink will put colour in his cheeks!” says Everett, and they all raise their glasses.

            James has his beer, and pretends to listen. He smiles when the others do, nods when they do, but his mind is a million miles away. No. That is not in any way accurate. He mind is about a mile away, turning in circles over the black eyed man with the know-it-all smile.

            This cannot happen. He did not think it ever would happen, not again. Fifteen years, he has never wanted another man. He has barely even noticed them. Hell, he has hardly even noticed the women. The only one he went to bed with was Miranda, and after Thomas it was always a joyless thing, done because it was the only way they could still be close to him.

            _Just because you noticed he’s easy to look at does not mean you want to fuck him_.

            Of course, the second he thinks that, James is picturing Ezra on all fours, naked as the day he was born. All those scars. James has never had someone with more scars than him. There was only Thomas, who even had soft hands, and a cabin boy whose name James can’t even remember, when he was seventeen and had been at sea for what seemed an eternity. James thinks of what it would be like to run his tongue over all those scars, and it is akin to sending a lightning bolt to his cock.

            Without thinking about it, he downs his pint in a few quick swallows. Inhaling, he lifts the mug and says, “Another.” He is not one for public drunkenness, and he does not intend on getting drunk here. But if he takes the edge off, at least until he can go home and get really drunk—and possibly stroke off—and that would be for the best.

            Tess refills his cup, looking suspicious, but James ignores her.

            This cannot happen. He is here to hide, not to—whatever, with Ezra _Wake_ , of all people. They are far too well matched, the two of them. A match made in hell. The two of them together? Jesus, they would probably cause the earth to crack open and swallow them whole.

            Ezra is his friend. Maybe he is just confusing friendship with something else.

            Or maybe it would not matter in the least. What if they did just go ahead and fuck? What would be the harm in it? Not like James is looking for anything more. Not like they could _have_ anything more.

            _As if he even wants you. Knowing what you are._

            _I know what he is as well_ , James thinks grumpily. The two of them are monsters. They come from remarkably different backgrounds, and lived very different lives, but in some ways they are so alike that it is uncanny they both ended up on this small patch of land.

            He is flint, and Ezra is steel, and together they would ignite and combust. God help whoever came in range of them.

            _You’re thinking too much about this. Just put it out of your head_.

            Easier said than done, of course. James takes another long pull of beer. Right now, he wishes for the cheapest, nastiest rum that ever existed. Just a truly disgusting bumbo to clear his head. Or muddy it.

            When Ezra’s name is spoken, he lifts his head. “Gotta be how many now?” asks Walters.

            “Must be at least five,” says Robert.

            “Has to be,” agrees Everett. “And hasn’t lost a woman yet. Unlike that luckless fuck who used to do his work.” Walters pats him on the back. Scowling, Everett shakes his head over his drink. “I tell you, if Wake had been here then, my Jenny would still be alive.”

            Robert lifts his cup. “To Mr. Wake. Man midwife, and a good man in general.”

            James smiles slightly to himself. He has a drink, and is glad for how the people care for Ezra. James might destroy most that he touches, but at least Ezra has landed himself in a good position.

            The others have cheered, and drank, but then Ryder says, “Swear to Christ, though, he was thinking more about that damned dog of his than my wife.”

            James presses his lips together.

            “Oh, come on now,” Everett says, frowning.

            Laughing drunkenly, Ryder continues, “The man looked like he’d been up all night crying. Crying, I swear, hand on my heart to God. Thought he was either going to fall asleep on Mary or burst out all in tears over her.” He mimes blubbering. “Oh, my poor puppy dog. Guess I’ll have to fuck the other one now that the bitch is dead.”

            The others glance among themselves, not saying anything. They choose instead to drink.

            James, though, has turned in his seat.

            After a moment, Ryder notices his gaze. “What?”

            Lifting his shoulders, his arm braced on the table, James says flatly, “That the kind of respect you show the man who kept your wife from dying with your child inside her?”

            “Oh, fuck off, Moore.”

            Some things change, and some do not. He will not be spoken to that way. “You mean to back that mouth up with anything?” James murmurs.

            Robert lifts his hands. “Gentlemen—come on now. Let’s just have some drinks, be friends—“

            Turning, Ryder pushes his cup in James’ direction. “You know what? Fuck you. Who do you think you are, coming here and telling me what to do? Who the hell are you? Coming out of nowhere, not doing a damned thing. You want to know what I think?” He slams his cup down on the table, and sticks his neck out. “I think I was wrong. I don’t think Wake’s out there fucking the dog. You soft for him, Moore? You soft for Mr. Wake? Or are you hard for him, you red headed bastard?”

            He sneers, then turns back to the table, lifting his tankard back to his mouth.

            It is comforting, how calm James is now. He knows exactly what he needs to do.

            He slips a coin from his pocket, lifting it between two fingers to show Tess. Setting it down on the table, he calmly gets to his feet. Ryder does not notice, too deep in his cup.

            James grabs him by the shoulders of his waistcoat, yanking him up and off the bench so fast that everyone scatters. He flips Ryder over onto the next table, and the mug in his hand goes flying across the room. One hand twisted into the waistcoat, James balls up a fist and smashes it into the middle of the man’s face, breaking his nose right off to disorient him.

            Then he lets himself loose.

            He slams his fist down in fast, furious punches, and it is the calmest and clearest he has been in ages. This is honest. This is easy. This is natural. He hears the crack of bone, sees the spatter of blood, and thinks nothing.

            His attack on Ryder’s face lasts all of five seconds. He assumes any more and the others will try and pull him off. Lifting Ryder off the table, he throws him to the ground. The man falls on his side, coughing on his own blood and gurgling.

            James leans over him, saying evenly, “Do I seem _soft_ to you?”

            He underlines his point by spitting on Ryder’s broken face, then turns and strides from the tavern without anyone saying a word.

 

_April 23, 1721_

_May have done something foolish. Right hand hurts like hell. It may be peculiar to say that it feels like it has been too long since I last hit someone. Sounds about right, though._

_Going to bed. Will discover if there are consequences tomorrow._

 

When the knock comes at his door, James raises his head with a wince. The sun is up, but not by much. He slept well last night. Like the dead.

            He swings his legs over the side of his bed, yawning. The knock comes again, and he calls, “I’ll be right there.”

            He is not sure who he hopes to find behind the door.

            James pushes himself up, tugging at his night shirt, and walks across the floor. Taking a short breath, he unlatches the door, and opens it wide.

            Mr. Fraser stands on his steps, his hat in his hands. He looks about as grim as James has ever seen him. “Mr. Moore.”

            James nods. “Mr. Fraser.”

            “I’ll assume you know why I’m here.”

            “Didn’t kill the bastard, did I?”

            “No.”

            Leaning against the doorway, James crosses his arms. “Then what can I do for you, Mr. Fraser?”

            He looks up at James from under his brows. “James, for Christ’s sake—you broke the man’s nose, you spit on him—Ezra says his jaw is broken as well.”

            James flexes his right hand. It feels swollen and bruised. Definitely a hand that has broken a jaw. “What does he want? An apology? He’s welcome to come over here and try to get it, if he likes.”

            “James, I have to—you committed a crime, you have to—“

            Incredulous, James says, “Are you _arresting_ me?”

            “I have to do _something_. I can’t just let people run around breaking one another’s jaws—“

            Towering over Fraser, James growls, “Did you hear what he said about me? Did you hear what that bastard had the audacity to say to me in front of all those people?”

            Flinching, Fraser nods. “Honestly, I ken why you hit him. But the severity of the attack—“

            “That drunk bastard, sitting there, shit falling out of his mouth about the man who just kept his wife from dying, and you think you’re going to arrest me because I put him in his place?”

            “You broke his jaw!” Fraser repeats, frustrated.

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” James shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere. If you think I’m just going to follow you like a lamb, you’re drunker than he was.”

            “James, if I leave here without you, I have to come back with men. Then it’ll get ugly, sonny boy. It’s my understanding that you are here to—maintain a low profile. But doing so means not making a scene. You’ve broken the law. You are not _above_ the law. You live here, so you live by the town’s rules. This is how we have made this place work.” Fraser sighs, exasperated. “If I have to take this outside the town, what the hell do you think will happen then? Do you want that to happen? I bloody well don’t.” He fidgets with his hat almost angrily. “You broke the law. Don’t be a child about it. Just come along, take your punishment, and we’ll be done with the mess by the end of the day. If you want to be stubborn about it, then I’ve no idea what happens.”

            _God damn it_.

            James grimaces. Fraser is right. He came here to be invisible. He cannot do that if he expects to be treated differently than anyone else.

            He puts his bruised hand against the doorframe, considering his options. Every bone in his body is screaming at him to stay exactly where he is. He has not done a damned thing wrong. No one would ever try to arrest Captain Flint for punching a drunkard who accused him of being a sodomite.

            _You’re not Captain Flint anymore. Your choice. You don’t want to be him, you have to take your medicine just like everyone else_.

            Recoiling even as he says it, James spits out, “What would be—this punishment?”

            Fraser hesitates, then answers, “We’d put you in the stocks for the day.”

            “Go fuck yourself!” James barks.

            Fraser actually whacks him with his hat. “Don’t speak that way to me, lad! I’ll punch you my own self, you think you can curse at me in such a manner.”

            “There—is no goddamn _way_ —that I am putting myself on display in front of those—“ James points towards the town, trying to come up with a word that will encapsulate what he means. Simpletons? Inbred backwoods fools?

            “Those people are your neighbours. And they have to see that whenever someone breaks the law, they’ll be taken to account for it.”

            “Really? What about Milly Smithe? When her husband caved in half her face, did you put him in those fucking stocks?”

            “It’s a different thing. She was his wife—“

            “Oh for heaven’s sake—no. Absolutely not.”

            “James.”

            Shaking his head, James steps away from the door. “No.” It will not happen. He will not put himself on public display for these insufferable morons. He has done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of, and he will not pretend otherwise.

            As he reaches for the door, Fraser says sharply, “And what of Mr. Wake?”

            James stops.

            “What about him?” he asks a moment later.

            “If I have to make a fuss about this, just to get you to obey the bloody law, what does he get dragged into? If I have to send for men to come in here, it’s all well and good for you to risk it. But he’s involved in this too. What do you think happens to him if more men in red coats show up?”

            “I’ve no idea what you mean—“

            “The hell you don’t!” Fraser nearly shouts. He looks around, cheeks going red with anger. “Everyone thinks old Alastair Fraser is pretty stupid. I forget things, I know I do. But I’ve not lost all my faculties. Maybe I believed it when it happened, but I have had time to think, and you’re all pretty proud of yourselves, aren’t you? Three members of his majesty’s service, and that boil on my ass, Oliver Smithe. I don’t know which of you did it, but I’m tempted to believe it was you. Ezra and his damned favours. What, he helped you clean things up, and you were indebted to him? That’s why you made the ride for the medicine in January? I’m not _stupid_ , for Christ’s sake!”

            “You’d have to be,” James retorts, “telling a man you think killed three soldiers what you think he did. In the middle of nowhere.”

            “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of—“ Fraser gestures towards town. “This, all this, falling apart. This is my home. Maybe, wherever you’ve been, whatever you’ve done, it doesn’t seem like much. But this is my land, these are my people, and I’ve a responsibility to them, however absurd and pointless it might seem to you. I mean to keep them safe, from each other and the outside world. That means keeping some semblance of order. Now—regardless of what happened last fall, and Christ knows that’s a mess we don’t need to revisit, I believe you to be a man of honour, and a man capable of doing good things. Ezra Wake has been a good friend to you, to all of us, and there’s no reason for him to be dragged any further into things because of your _bloody pride_.”

            Fraser has a lot of things wrong. Remarkably wrong. The problem is—if more red coats come to town, over something so trivial as a bar fight, James knows what Ezra will do. He made promises before coming to this place, and James is certain that Ezra would put any man who came near him to the sword. He signed his articles, and meant them.

            _It’s just a day._

 _It’s humiliating_.

            Holding onto the door, James near growls, “Alastair—I don’t know that I have it in me.”

            Tossing up his arms, Fraser says, “That’s the sodding point, James. It’s meant to embarrass you, so you don’t do it again, and so they’re not tempted to either. Come on. Make an old man’s life easier. James, I’m your friend. I don’t want to do this. But I’ve got nearly fifty other people to think about, and I need them safe. We don’t ask much from you. We need you to do this.”

            _If you don’t, the English will show their faces. And Ezra won’t be able to help himself_.

            The murmur in his ear says, _Only to the rational animal is it given to follow voluntarily what happens; but simply to follow is a necessity imposed on all._ Sometimes—will alone is not enough. Pride is not enough. Sometimes a man just needs to keep his mouth shut and do what is expected of him.

            With a very— _very_ —long sigh, James says, “Well, can I at least put on some clothes first?”

            “That would be most appreciated.”

            James turns back into the house, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

 

When Fraser raises the top of the stocks, James abruptly says, “No.” He shakes his head, taking a step back. “Can’t.”

            “So help me, lad, I’ll beat you with a switch if you don’t act like a man and get in the goddamn contraption.”

            It is just late enough in the early morning that James can see people moving about, sneaking glances over at them. He can just imagine how the day will go. He is likely to be pelted with things. People hollering at him. That is what this whole charade is for, after all.

            “Jesus Christ,” he hisses, and climbs onto the little platform that will at least keep him from sitting on the wet spring ground. “I suppose you want me to take my shoes off.”

            “That’s how it’s done, Mr. Moore—“

            Muttering under his breath, James kicks off his shoes. He sits down, and before he can change his mind, he puts his feet through the stocks.

            Fraser lowers the wood down over his ankles, trapping him in place, and then locks the front. “Well. There we are.” He goes to pick up James’ shoes. “I’ll keep these with me so no one runs off with them.” He sighs, then says, “Eight hours. I’ll let you loose when I go home for the day.”

            “Splendid,” James says acidly.

            As Fraser walks away, James takes in his circumstances. It is not ideal. The holes are large enough to not pinch, but small enough that he cannot wiggle out, especially with feet his size. The platform he sits on is not large enough for him to lay back comfortably. It is going to be one incredibly obnoxious day.

            James just shakes his head, glancing up at the sun. It looks to be a beautiful morning. A wonderful day to come by and stare at the man in the stocks.

            To hell with it. He lays back.

            His shoulders and head hang off the back of the platform, and the blood rushes to his head. He cannot believe he has agreed to this nonsense. Debasing himself in front of these jackasses. He pictures his crew witnessing him in this state. What they would say. He pictures them laughing. Silver would look at him with pity, the blue eyed bastard. The great Captain Flint. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire, displayed in the stocks for so small a crime as punching a man in the face.

            _All for Ezra Wake_.

            He hit that man for Ezra, and now he is in these stocks for Ezra. That is a troublesome thing.

            _So what? Maybe I lust for the man. After all these years, aren’t I entitled to do that?_

_Of course, James. You broke a man’s jaw and then willfully humiliated yourself for a man you merely lust for. Keep trying._

_Fuck_.

            James gazes up at the clouds, glowing with the early morning sky, and wonders how so simple a situation could suddenly become so difficult.

            He hears the footsteps in some of the last snow, and lifts his head a little. Ezra is walking over with a chair under one arm, a book under the other, and a pewter cup in his hand. Black Shuck follows at his heels. What in the hell is he doing?

            He sets the chair down by the stocks as James sits up, then puts the cup beside James. Taking a seat, Ezra crosses his legs at the knee and places the book on his lap. Then he looks at James, like he is his old self again for the first time in days.

            “Now what have you gotten yourself into? Literally.”

            “What do you think you’re doing?” James demands as the dog drops next to Ezra.

            “I’m sitting.”

            “No you’re not. Go back to the shop.”

            “And how do you mean to make me?” Ezra replies, a brow raised. “Your reach is somewhat limited at the moment.”

            James looks away from him, scowling. Infuriating man. He remembers why he hated him so much when they met.

            “So? You feel better?”

            “About _what_?” James says in disbelief.

            “Well, you broke a man’s nose and jaw last night over a trifle, so I’d like to hope you at least got some satisfaction over that.”

            “Trifle—trifle, did you hear what he said?”

            “I was told, yes.”

            “And still, you patched him up, didn’t you.”

            “Of course I did. It’s what I do. He had the good grace to apologize to me, which was kind.” Ezra leans over and says confidentially, “However, I made sure the stitches in his face will leave some truly gruesome scars. Between that brand on his hand and the mess we’ve both made of his face, I believe Ryder’s options are now even more limited than previous.” Ezra opens his book, flipping through the first few pages.

            Frowning at him, James says, “You know what he said about—it does neither of us any good, you sitting here.”

            “I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, nor do you. My good friend defended my honour—very kind of you, sir, as if I of all people require defending—and I will show my loyalty to him by making sure no one abuses him. The first person to come within ten feet of you with any kind of rotten food is going to be set upon by my dog.” Ezra shakes his head, slight smile on his face. “I’ve no reason to be ashamed. Nor should you.”

            He turns to his book, leaning back in his chair, and begins to read.

            James gazes at him. He wonders what Thomas would have made of him. James has spent years trying to be free. Here is a man who is free, no matter where he is.

            To say it is only lust is an embarrassing falsehood.

            Two minutes later, Fraser comes storming up. “Ezra!”

            Looking up nonchalantly, Ezra smiles. “Alastair. How lovely to see you again so soon. Long night for us both, wasn’t it. That’s three Ryders I’ve seen to in the last day. What brings you to see me? Back paining you again?”

            “Don’t play coy with me. Back to your shop!”

            “No.”

            “Oh no, don’t you dare try this with me. I already played this game with that one—“

            Ezra’s eyes and voice go cold. “But now you are playing with me. I’m breaking no laws, and I’ll not have my friend be abused. Anyone lays a hand to try and move me will have wounds that I will not stitch up, and then I’ll spend tomorrow in this thing, and Mr. Moore can keep me company if he pleases.” He turns to James. “You had better, otherwise I’ll tell everyone and their cows what an ungrateful cur you are.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it,” James says.

            “Excellent.”

            Turning red, Fraser says, “Ezra, I’m warning you—“

            “And I’m _telling_ you. I am breaking no laws. I’ve no intention of moving. I’ll keep my friend company, because he’s done us both a great favour.”

            “And how do you figure _that_?”

            Ezra’s tone goes deadly. “Because if I had gotten to Ryder first, after what he said about my dogs, I would have fucking _killed_ him.” Fraser blinks a few times, and James thinks that he has never seen this side of Ezra before. Then Ezra sits back, all polite smiles again. “Good to see you on this lovely morning, Alastair. Sure you have plenty of work on your hands.”

            He returns his attention to his book, effectively dismissing Fraser. The old man harrumphs a few times, then stomps away.

            Watching him go, James says, “I’d be careful there. He thinks we had something to do with what happened in October.”

            “I know. He thinks you killed them and I helped dispose of the bodies.”

            “Were you planning on telling me that at some point?”

            Ezra licks his finger, then turns the page. “It’s not a conspiracy if _everyone_ knows _everything_.”

            James snorts. Ezra Wake. The remarkable bastard.

 

“You weren’t too lonely, were you?”

            James looks up from the book. “I had Mr. Milton to keep me company.” He passes the volume back to Ezra, who retakes his seat. “Esther all right?”

            “Oh yes,” Ezra replies, flipping back to his spot. “Just needed to chat, is all.”

            “How is that different from any other day?”

            “It was rather refreshing. I think she’s the only one in the town who doesn’t know you broke Ryder’s face for calling us sodomites.”

            James shakes his head with a smile. It is mid-day, the sun high over them. It is good to be outside, with the sun on his neck. Other than the uncomfortable position he is in, it really would not be that terrible. Every time Ezra is called to the shop, he leaves Black Shuck on guard. Anyone who even looks at James gets bared fangs and a growl.

            It could certainly be worse.

            “James.”

            “Hm.”

            Ezra closes the book, resting his hands on them. Brow slightly furrowed, he says, “I’ve wanted to say something to you for some months now, and seeing as this is the only opportunity I shall ever get where you can’t punch me and then run off to brood for several days, I suppose I should take it.”

            Heart beat picking up, James asks, “Remember, I can still kill you when I get out of these things.”

            “True enough.”

            He says nothing else, and James sighs. “Fine. Whatever it is, spit it out.”

            He looks away, leaning forward to fold his hands on the stocks while Ezra says whatever it is that he needs to.

            “Whoever he was, I am sorry you lost him.”

            His insides go cold. It is that old splitting feeling. But this time it is like ice forms in his middle and then works its way outwards. James stares across the grass, not acknowledging what Ezra just said.

            Very quiet, Ezra continues, “I’ve known since January. Since I told you who I was. Another man would have different words for me. Words you’ve rarely used, when I expected far more. When I told you about myself, what I had lost—you looked at me in such a way that I understood. You looked at me in recognition. He must—have been rather something. I destroyed a family. You tried to destroy England. I confess, I am…in awe of that.”

            James has to bite into his mouth. He does not want to hear anymore. He does not want to discuss this.

            “You know I ask few questions, and I will ask you no questions about this. We will never discuss your reasons for what you became. It does not mean I would not listen, were you to tell me. But no matter where you came from—it matters not to me. You are here now, and you are my friend, and your actions mean far more to me than your past.” Ezra looks away, then says, “Do you want to know something?” James does not reply, does not move his gaze. “I don’t give a fuck if you did throw that young man off the side of the ship.”

            That catches James’ attention.

            Ezra returns his gaze with certainty. “It would not matter to me if you shot him in the head, ran him through—I wouldn’t care. Do you know why?” James shakes his head. “Because you are my friend.”

            James feels compelled to warn him. “All my friends end up dead. All because of me.”

            It should send the man running, but he is made of stronger stuff. “You can hate yourself from now until the end of time. But those of us who take that chance know what you will not believe: you are worth the endeavour.”

            Ezra opens his book back up, and runs his fingers down the line until he finds his place.

            Trying a few times to speak, James finally says, “You’re insane.”

            “I wouldn’t cast stones, McGraw,” Ezra says without lifting his head. “ _I’m_ not the one who tried to defeat all of England.”

"Does _nothing_ frighten you, Wake?”

Ezra thinks about it, then says soberly, “A cage. I fear ever being placed back in a cage.” Shaking off the idea with a shudder, he glances at James. “So? Are we still speaking, or will I not see you for several days?”

            James thinks about it. He really thinks about it.

            “You are insane,” he says. “But it does get rather boring when you are not around.”

            Ezra smiles crookedly. “Mr. McGraw, that might be the kindest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

            “Oh, shut up.” He looks over at the book, then says, “Put that bloody thing down and tell me a story.”

            Cracking up, Ezra says, “You sound like a petulant child.” But he shuts the book, and stretches out. “What would you like to hear? History? My own adventures? Monsters?”

            “Weren’t you telling me months ago about some rabbi pirate?”

            Ezra’s eyes light up. “Rabbi Samuel Palache!” He claps his hands together, then rubs them in anticipation. “Good thing you aren’t going anywhere, because this is a long one. So.”

            He starts his story centuries before the man was even born, and James listens with a smile. He tries not to, but he cannot help himself.

            The two of them—they recognize one another. When last could he say such a thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I said this, but thank you SO MUCH to everyone who continues to read. Your commitment and some of the truly staggering comments I've received have made sharing this story with you one of the best things to happen to me this year. I'm grateful for each and every one of you.  
> PS. I continue to have some strange formatting issues, like paragraphs refusing to indent, as you can see above just before the end of the chapter. Does anyone have any ideas on how to fix that?


	20. A Great Affection

_May 9, 1721_

_The quiet of the last few weeks continues. I did not ever imagine myself saying this, but I am glad for it. The most excitement that has happened around here is still in regards to a rift between Mrs. Walters and Mrs. Fraser. Even the men discuss it in the tavern. I am still firmly on Lizzy’s side, knowing her to be an honest woman with a fire about her that I appreciate._

_Passed by Mr. Ryder as I took Marcus for his shoes. I was rather gratified when he ducked his head and said in a barely audible voice, “Mr. Moore.” I said, with my usual volume, “Mr. Ryder.” I might have damaged that man’s face to some extent, but in truth I think Wake did far more hurt to it. After witnessing the minute, careful stitches he is capable of, the jagged thing on Ryder’s face is an obvious message. Ryder might have apologized to him, but Wake had his revenge nonetheless._

_I still mean to make my journey to Portsmouth the day after next. Now that I have accepted I will be here for some time, I intend to make more of a home of this place. I have thought of maybe being a cabinet maker, as bizarre as that sounds. I can recall some of the lessons my father taught me, though I hated it at the time, and he was quite skilled at his work. Over the winter and this spring I have proven to myself that I am capable of more carpentry than I had imagined. I will purchase wood, so that I might practice. I also intend to shingle the roof. It weathered the snow well enough, but I would like to be all the more prepared for next winter._

_I will bring back plantings for the garden, and try my hand at that as well. I have never grown my own vegetables. Miranda said that it was harder than she expected, so I imagine I will lose my temper over the whole thing several times. Nonetheless, I will try. It is how people survive here._

_I have a list from several of my neighbours of things they require. Mr. Fraser is loaning me his wagon. Wake, of course, wants nothing but books. I am not sure what will weigh more, the wood or his books._

_I must close now, for I am expected at his house. He has agreed, of course, and I am curious to see which of us will emerge the victor._

“This,” Ezra says, “is a _perilously_ stupid idea.”

            Shifting the cutlass in his hand, James replies, “So you don’t think you can win, then?”

            Tugging his shirt up and off, Ezra shakes his head. “No, I’m more worried about your mood when I emerge the victor.”

            James snorts, squinting up at the sun. They are in Ezra’s back yard, Black Shuck locked inside so that he does not get the wrong idea. The day is bright, and the trees are thick with green, as is the ground. Spring, true spring, came on so fast and sudden that it is a bit breath taking. Only two weeks earlier there was snow on the ground, and now James can near feel summer threatening.

            Ezra places his shirt on top of his waistcoat by the back step. With a sigh, he draws his katana from its scabbard, and comes to face James with a wary expression.

            It was James’ idea. He freely admits it. They were talking a week ago, about a fight he had aboard a Spanish galleon and his work with the sword, and Ezra did not seem suitably impressed. James asked if he thought he could do better, and Ezra demurred, but the seed was planted.

            “Do you really think you could beat me with swords?” James asked, and the look he got from Ezra clearly said, _don’t be stupid, of course I could._ James was not having any of that. “You and me, then. Swords.” Ezra just laughed, and when he realized James was serious, he refused. “Scared after all?”

            “No—worried one of us will be hurt.” Then Ezra muttered, “And by us, I mean you.”

            James pestered him for a week—an actual week—before Ezra agreed to the thing. James does not know exactly why he has done this. He is curious, yes, as to which of them will win, and he is also anxious to have his sword in his hand again.

            The truth of it is, he wants badly to win. Ezra is younger, and his profession means he has to be good with the blade, not to mention all the years he spent training with a sword master. But James is quite skilled in his own right, and he wants to know—well, he just wants to know.

            Lifting his cutlass, James says with a smirk, “Are you ready?”

            With a frown, Ezra takes a few steps back, clad like James only in his breeches. They both agreed it was for the best, given how many shirts Ezra already loses to blood. “No,” he responds, “but since you seem set upon this nonsense, we might as well.”

            “Just remember, there’s no shame in admitting when you’ve lost.”

            “I’d remind you of the same thing when all you can feel is your damaged pride.”

            Ezra draws back his bare foot in the dirt, setting his stance wide, holding his sword vertically upwards by his chest. He has perfect form, unlike James, who is used to brawling. James holds his sword out by his side, and waits.

            Neither of them move.

            About ten seconds go by, and James sighs. “Honestly?”

            “I have all the time in the world.”

            With an eye roll, James crosses the distance, watching Ezra carefully. “I’ve no compunction about laying the first blow.”

            Ezra raises a brow. “Think you can? Old man?”

            Grinning crookedly, James says, “Oh, you’re a dead man—“

            He swings his sword, which Ezra quickly jumps back from, slicing his own sword downwards. James spins out of its path, and they both step back from one another, cautious.

            Beginning to circle each other, Ezra says, “Remind me again why we’re not using sticks?”

            “Getting timid out here in the woods, Mrs. Wake? Worried you’ll accidentally cut yourself?”

            “Please, Flint—there’s already so little use for you, what shall we do about you when you’ve only the one arm?”

            The teasing just makes James grin. He sees the light in Ezra’s eyes, and sidesteps as the dark haired man swings his blade. When Ezra pivots, their swords clash, and they are both quick to move their feet, watching each other for any clue.

            James goes for his leg, and Ezra stops the strike. James goes for his left arm, and Ezra parries. For every blow James tries to land, Ezra meets it, moving steadily backwards.

            “Is this all that old man taught you?” James goads. “Defense?”

            “Mild curiosity, McGraw—did anyone teach you at all?” Ezra shoves back James’ blade. “I’m curious how you got as far as you did. It certainly wasn’t on account of your good looks.”

            “Not your type, Wake? Do I have to be a bit darker for that?”

            Blocking another swing, Ezra replies, “Nah, you’re all right—I just don’t think you’d know what to do with me.” He pushes James’ blade back abruptly, stepping towards him. Face to face, James can see the devil’s glint in Ezra’s eyes. “Something tells me you like your men _soft_.”

            James punches him in the mouth.

            As soon as he does it, Ezra stumbling back a few feet, James regrets it. He covers his dismay—they’re sparring for Christ’s sake, of course one or both of them were going to be hurt—as Ezra lifts a hand to his mouth. When he pulls it away, there is blood.

            He turns to James, disbelief on his face. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he barks.

            James blinks, not having expected Ezra to take it so badly. “Come on, don’t be a sore—“

            “Jesus,” Ezra mutters, moving towards the house, sword down by his side. “I knew this was a terrible idea—“ He turns back a moment. “And expecting _you_ of all people to fight fair—what the hell was I thinking—“

            James jogs a few quick steps, saying, “Don’t be that—“

            The next thing he knows, steel has sliced up across his shoulder, barely missing his face, and Ezra has danced away, his sword back up and a smirk on his face.

            “That’ll need stitches.”

            James looks down at the injury. Ezra’s put a four inch long cut into him, and about half an inch deep. Setting his jaw, James glares at him.

            Shrugging, Ezra says, “You want to play for blood, we’ll play for blood. I’ve no issue with that.”

            “You bitch.”

            “Oh, something to remember me by.” Ezra takes up his stance again. “You going to do something about it? Or just stand there and whinge?”

            Shaking his head, James strides across the yard to him, raising his sword. Ezra moves forward to meet him.

            For the next few minutes, they clash blades, and every time James gets increasingly frustrated. He can tell Ezra is holding back. He can feel it. It gets to the point where he is not playing at all. He is actually trying to strike a blow, because he can tell that Ezra will just brush them all off. He does not have to be careful.

            Meanwhile, Ezra just watches him, moving in circles with flushed cheeks and blood dribbling down his chin. It is one of the most distractingly beautiful things James has ever seen.

            Losing his temper, James demands, “If you can hit me, hit me!”

            “That’s not the issue!”

            “Don’t coddle me, Wake! If you can win, just bloody well win!”

            “You don’t want that!”

            James snarls, “Fight like a man, you fucking Jew—“

            Ezra spins, bringing down his blade with full strength.

            He slices right through James’ cutlass, leaving him but three inches of steel.

            James barely has time to react. He thrusts what is left of his sword towards Ezra’s torso as Ezra swings the katana at his neck.

            They both stop, blades paused about half a foot from one another’s flesh. Both panting, bleeding, they watch to see what the other shall do.

            Letting out a breath, Ezra asks, “Shall we call it a draw?”

            It is better than losing. James sighs, and lowers his weapon. “Suppose we should.”

            Ezra puts the tip of his blade into the earth, putting a hand on his hip to catch his breath. “Thank God. What did I tell you? Perilous.”

            James lifts his shattered sword, a bit dumbfounded by the broken blade. “Jesus, Ezra.” He looks over at the other man. “Did you know you could do that?”

            After a second, Ezra shrugs and admits, “Why do you think I was holding back? The issue is not with you, it’s with your sword. I thought best to end things when I could tell you were losing your temper.” He lifts his own sword, holding it horizontally in the air. “James, this is a katana. The steel has been folded 16 times, made over the course of weeks and passed down through generations. It’s one of the strongest swords on earth.” He nods at the piece of metal on the ground. “That is a piece of shit.”

            Feeling a bit naked, James says, “Served me well enough in the Indies.”

            “I didn’t want to leave you disarmed. Tell me you have another sword at home.” James looks at Ezra, who slumps. “Fuck. I’ve one you can take with you on the journey to Portsmouth.” Ezra nods towards the house. “Want me to start putting those stitches in? Or do you want to let the bad humours out?”

            With an eye roll, James mutters, “Shut up and get your needle.”

            Ezra lets out a short laugh, and they head towards the house together. James gives Ezra a shove. Ezra just chuckles. “Difficult old man.”

            James lifts his now less than impressive sword. “I could still gut you with this.”

           

James frowns, and nods off to the side. “What happened there?”

            Ezra lifts his gaze from the stitches he is threading through James’ shoulder. His violin sits on a shelf, one of the strings broken and curled. With a shake of the head, Ezra returns to his work. “I was playing last night and the damn string snapped. I’ve more but—I go through them rather faster than I would like.” He smiles slightly at James. “No music tonight, I am afraid. Lest you finally grace me with one of those shanties you’re too bashful to share.”

            “It’s less a matter of bashfulness and more a matter of you not wanting me caterwauling in your home. Believe me.”

            James looks down at how deft Ezra’s fingers are at pulling the curved needle through his skin. He barely feels it. Given how good Ezra’s stitches are, he doubts the scar will be all that telling. James finds that he would not mind if it were.

            _Foolish old man_.

            “Did I offend you when I called you a Jew?” James asks.

            Leaning closer, Ezra adjusts the cannula. “James, I _am_ a Jew.” He pushes the needle through James’ skin. “I was not offended, I could only see that you were becoming upset.”

            “I don’t like losing.”

            “ _No_ ,” Ezra says in mock disbelief.

            “You’ve a mouth on you, do you know that?”

            “It might have been said.”

            James thinks about it. He admits, “I never know when to stop.”

            “That’s why you need people around you. So they can tell you when to stop.”

            It strikes a chord, though not a good one. “That has never worked for me before.” Ezra glances up, but says nothing. James looks around the house. He wants a place like this. Comfortable. Not like the sparse quarters he had in England. Not like the captain’s quarters he had taken, knowing at any moment he could be voted out of them. To have some permanence, that would not be such a bad thing. “I’ve never listened when people told me to stop. The one time I did…I regretted it so badly that I thought best to follow my instincts ever after.”

            “How has that turned out for you?”

            James meets Ezra’s eyes. Teasing, without judgment. Knowing. “Not well,” James says. “No idea how many dead. Lives ruined. My friends dead. I killed my best friend for disagreeing with me.” He frowns. “Do you not ever worry I will do the same to you?”

            “No.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I can defend myself.” Ezra taps next to the wound. “Do you think this a random blow? If you ever tried to harm me, I would hold you off with my sword until you came back to your senses.”

            “You are a peculiar man.”

            “That would be calling the kettle black, sir.”

            “I spent well over a decade trying to defeat England. What chance do you think you have against me?” He does not say it as a threat. He says it, bewildered, a bit worried for the other man.

            Ezra pauses, and says kindly, “I’m not England. I’ve done nothing to harm you. I just tell you when you’re being a damned fool.”

            As he continues to work, James shakes his head. He is not sure how he earned this man’s trust. He only knows that he is glad for it.

            “I don’t believe I’ve told you much about after I was thrown off the _Walrus_.”

            “You’ve told me nothing.”

            James nods, then says quietly, “Suppose I was embarrassed to.” He sighs deeply, and confesses what he is ashamed of. “There is no great story. There is no ‘last stand of Captain Flint.’ They left me on that island, and I made my way back among those who were not my enemies, but I cannot say they were my allies either. By then, the tide had irrevocably turned, only I could not see it. Nassau was English. Woodes Rogers, he—he had the people’s confidence. Many years ago—before I was Flint—I worked to do exactly what he did. When I was with the navy, my concern was curbing piracy. The great irony, considering what I became. We meant to offer pardons to all pirates, so that they would feel that they could settle, could be citizens. But that vision became so…warped…that when the pardons came I fought them. I thought England was just making us all her slaves. She is. Of course she is. But people don’t care. They don’t care about freedom. They don’t care about a cause. They just want to live. I’m not like that. I didn’t take their wants…into consideration. I thought of them as little more than pawns. I was so convinced I was right that I threw everything away. When I started talking to people about my next plan for Nassau, what would be done now that I no longer had the _Walrus_ behind me, my new scheme for taking back Nassau, they looked at me like I was mad. I _was_ mad. I couldn’t see it. I thought them cowards, so I damned them for it and went on my way. It went like that for weeks. Me trying to convince someone, anyone to listen to me. My word—it was once law. And they were all cowards. Not a one of them would back me when I needed it, after all I—“  

            His hands have made fists. James forces his hands to unfold, resting them on his thighs.

            Wiping away some blood, Ezra asks quietly, “What changed?”

            James thinks back a year. “There was a child,” he replies. “I was in this village on the north side of New Providence. Trying again to rally anyone to my cause. This girl—no older than Rebecca Smithe, probably—blond hair, brown eyes. She caught sight of me walking and she started screaming. She was screaming her bloody head off. Face streaming with tears. I stopped and stared at her, because I’d no idea what she was going on about. Her mother came running out from the house, asking her what was wrong, and the child pointed at me and said, ‘It’s Flint.’ By that point, other people had come out of their homes. It was mid-day. Mid-day, and the mere sight of me scared this child beyond all reason. That’s what I was to those people. I wasn’t trying to save them. I was a horror who was there to destroy them all.” James bites into the side of his mouth at the memory. He remembers what he thought in that moment: _what would Thomas think of me_. “I left that place, and thought about it, and finally got through my head what people had been telling me for…a very, very long time. There can be no safe haven for pirates. That is not the nature of what we are. We’re criminals. Everyone else…. They just want to live. I wasn’t trying to set them free, I was just…being a monster. I suppose I became sick of being that way.”

            Ezra ties off the stitches, then cuts through the thread. “Better than never being sick of it,” he says. “Better than setting the whole world aflame with you.”

            “Some days I think that. Then there are the others.”

            Putting a bandage over the wound, Ezra says, “Lift your arm.” He ties the bandage in place, then smiles at James. “I’d have words to comfort you, but that’s merely the kind of thing you need to live with. Better that you do.” He starts gathering up his instruments. “On with your shirt. Try not to bleed through it.”

            Ezra gets up, going to wash his hands. James pulls on his shirt, watching him.

            Out of nowhere, James finds himself asking, “Do you think you’ll ever go back to sea?”

            Ezra bursts out laughing. “ _Fuck_ no.” He flicks the wetness of his hands, then goes to dry them on the towel. “I hate the sea. Endless, violent, quiet, roaring, dangerous, awful sea. I never had any intention of going out there in the first place, and I’ve _no_ bloody intention of ever going back.” He leans against the column in the middle of the house. “You? Will you be leaving us for the sea?”

            James shrugs. “Probably not any time soon.” He smiles wistfully. “I miss it, though.”

            “What could you possibly miss about the sea?”

            He does not hesitate. “The way it rocks a ship in the night. The sound of the bow cresting through a wave. Putting my hand to a knot and knowing without looking how to make it and unmake it. The way the water becomes indistinguishable from the sky. All of it. I just miss all of it.”

            “You’re fucking insane,” Ezra says, and James begins chuckling. “I had my doubts when you were going to battle the whole of England, but now I know for sure. You’re slowly losing your faculties. Is it syphilis? It might be syphilis. I’m quite certain it’s syphilis.”

            “It’s a small wonder you’ve not been hung all these years.”

            “A miracle.”

            “I’d not go that far.”

            “How far would you go?”

            “I don’t think God had anything to do with it. I think you’re Satan incarnate.”

            Ezra grins widely, ducking his head.

            James nods to him. “You’re bleeding again.”

            Lifting his fingers to his mouth, Ezra says, “Am I? Damn it.” He turns and walks to the bookshelves. “Maybe I should put a few stitches in.”

            “You just want to put stitches in everything. You want to show off.”

            Taking down a small mirror from the top shelf, Ezra lifts his head and studies his split lip. “A lot of things require stitches. It’s not my fault I’m brilliant at them.” He glances back at James with a frown. “Damn it, McGraw, I think you might have left me with a scar.”

            “I have not.”

            “Have so.”

            James pushes himself up, and crosses the house. “And you don’t think that’s fair? After the mark you put on me today?”

            “Don’t complain to me. You have at least a dozen others of the same size. I’ve gone a lifetime without a mark on my face. Now look what you’ve done.” Shaking his head, Ezra says, “A perfect face, marred because you can’t take a light jab.”

            James stands beside him, then says quietly, “Still looks fine to me.”

            He watches Ezra pause. Clearing his throat slightly, the other man lifts the mirror, setting it back on the shelf.

            Inhaling through his nose, James raises his hand. It has been a long—very long time since he attempted this. Even then, he was always so awkward. He is not sure how to go about this. For lack of any better ideas, he touches Ezra’s cheek with the back of his fingers.

            Ezra’s eyes immediately close. He dips his head slightly. How could so little contact mean so much? James thinks he can feel it vibrating in his very marrow. He gently runs his knuckles over Ezra’s skin.

            Ezra reaches up, taking his hand, and pulls it away from his face. He turns to look at James.

            Just from his eyes, James can see the answer to the question he has posed. Cheeks flushing, he steps away.

            Holding fast to his hand, Ezra says, “James, wait. Wait, before you leave. I’ve something to say to you, and I’ll follow you home to say it if you insist on walking away, I’ll holler it at you like an idiot through your walls if you don’t want to listen. But I’ll still speak, nonetheless. Will you at least listen?”

            Wishing Ezra would let him go, but for some reason not yanking his hand away, James nods a single time.

            Ezra looks down at their hands instead of James as he speaks. “You might think this is foolish, but that does not concern me. Only, I’ve not been with another man since Henry. I had not thought I would want to be. I loved him—terribly. I gave myself to one person, once, and the loss of him was more than I could bear. People do not understand, that I could have loved him so. But he was my husband, and I his wife, and I thought to mourn him until the end of my days.” Ezra swallows. “However—I have developed a great affection for you. And I do not know exactly how to…proceed. If I want to. For all I know, you think I’m being a sentimental ass, and all you want is to take me to bed. If that is the case, we can go this moment. If that is all you desire of me, I am willing to give you that. Gladly, even. However, if you wanted more…I would not be able to offer that at this time.”

            He waits on James’ answer, a bit pink in the cheeks, but unbowed.

            After a moment, James lifts Ezra’s hand to his mouth. He gives the back of his hand a single kiss.  Then he lets go. They stand in silence a moment, James watching how the other man awaits his reply, how he almost winces.

            Regarding Ezra, James says, “Do you know—I think you might be the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

            At that, Ezra truly blushes, looking away. “There’s no bravery in being honest,” he mutters.

            “You know that’s a damned lie.”

            Ezra looks up at him from under his brow. “Have I offended you?” he asks, worried. “Are—we no longer friends?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we are friends.”

            “It would pain me if we were not.”

            “And I as well.” James takes a deep breath, then says, “Why don’t you tell me one of your monster tales?” He walks back towards his chair, disappointed, but not upset. How could he be?

            After a moment, Ezra joins him. Black Shuck comes to sit on his feet, and Ezra pets him. After a moment, he says, “Do you know the story of Cú Chulainn?”

            “I don’t.”

            Ezra looks at him, and smiles a little. “Then I’ll tell you.”


	21. Thomas

_May 10, 1721_

_Thomas._

_Fifteen years he is gone now. How can it be so long?_

_I do not write of him here, though I should. I never speak of him, because who would I tell? There is the one person I could speak to, but I have found myself reluctant. Ever since Wake told me he knew I had lost someone, back in April, I have known that I could tell him about Thomas. I have not._

_Is it from selfishness? All those who loved Thomas, who knew him, are now dead. I am the only one left. Having had to share him in life, now I am the only keeper of his memory. That is a shameful thing. That I should extinguish the memory of him when I die. All because I do not know when to let go._

_I have thought about him much today. Ever since last night, at Wake’s. He is so transparent with me about the depth of his feelings for his lost love, and I, meanwhile, say nothing of mine. Keeping him all to myself._

_I do not think Thomas would want that. Not because he would want to be remembered, or for fame. Thomas never cared if he, the man, was remembered. He only wanted his deeds to last. Much as I want to curse the heavens for the manner in which it happened, his ideas for Nassau are now in place. The pardons were given out, the people backed the crown. The place is English, and they are citizens. That is what Thomas wanted. As much as he was derided in his lifetime for it, England came to see that his vision for Nassau was the only way it could be theirs. Even now, trying to praise his foresight, I cannot help but be angered by how it all ended. England got exactly what she wanted: servile peasants in the Caribbean, and to crush the light of someone like Thomas. Someone who dared to be different, to speak the truth._

_When I say that Thomas would not want me to hoard his memory like a miser, I think it is because he would worry about its effects on me. He was so brave, my Thomas. When they came for him, he asked Miranda that I be kept safe. Me. No one had ever asked that for me before in my life. No one had ever loved me in such a way before._

_I loved him. I love him still. I always shall._

_I see these words on the paper and I want to tear away the page. Not because the words are not true, but because they are a reminder of what I lost. For so long, I did not think of him. I only thought of his loss. It fueled me, made me Flint. My rage was so great that I became an entirely different person so that I might have revenge for him._

_Except being that man meant not being the man who loved him in the first place. The kind who could be loved by him in return. I could not think about him, just that there was this gaping void where he was supposed to be. I made myself forget him, so that I could do terrible things in his name._

_Thomas Hamilton was not a name. He was a man. He was perhaps the kindest man I have ever known. He welcomed me into his home and his life without hesitation, despite the great difference in our station. The normal things that would have upset a man of his class did not bother him, but things I had not even considered before did. He could not abide cruelty of any manner, and while he had the good sense not to point it out when it was inappropriate, he never forgot a man who hit his horse or yelled at his servants. _

_He was reckless. He was so bloody reckless. Living without shame can do that to a man. He never cared who Miranda laid with, so long as she was happy, no matter what people said about him as a result. He would not lie. Even when it seemed to me the only course of action, he would not tell a lie. He seemed incapable. His conviction in what he was doing was so absolute that I could not help but follow him. To find a man so honest, so sincere, it was extraordinary. He was extraordinary._

_I think of the small things too. Those little trifles that would mean nothing to anyone, but which make a person. The moment we would cross the threshold to his house, he would pull off his wig and toss it to the nearest servant, then make an absolute mess of his hair before pushing it down with both his hands. He could not stand the taste of butter. He would put his hand on the place between Miranda’s shoulder and neck, and kiss her forehead. He would thread his fingers through my hair until I fell asleep._

_He was so good to me. And patient. The first time we went to bed, it was but moments after we first kissed. He led me away from the dinner table, and I did look back at Miranda. I could see on her face a kind of hurt, but acceptance as well. She knew before I did that I wanted Thomas. I followed him up the stairs, to the same room where I had lain with his wife. He closed and locked the door, and I confess I was frightened. I had never felt so strongly about anyone. Or anything, even. I said his name. Maybe I meant to say that I could not continue, to try and run from something that seemed so consuming. He turned to me, and he embraced me. Nothing more. I was confounded, but I realized how glad I was that he had done it. He held me for a very long time, until I had calmed down, until I could not bear another moment where I did not have him, completely._

_My Thomas. Who loved me, who is gone. Our Miranda, who loved me, and who is gone as well. She and I who loved him so terribly, and who have been destroyed by it_.

_He would not want that for us. We were supposed to take care of one another, and we did not. Miranda and I fed off one another’s hatred for what had been done to our Thomas, and put ourselves in a position to be doomed for it. I failed him. I have failed him utterly. He loved her, he adored her, and she is dead because I could not keep her safe._

_He asked her to keep me safe. Even now, these many years later, I am awed by that action. He was so strong. I cannot imagine what horrors led him to give up. They are the dreams that wake me on the worst of nights. Thomas, all alone, the sound of screaming, told that he is mad. Thomas, broken. He was taken, but we survived, and how have we repaid him?_

_How have I repaid him_?

 

James knocks on the door.

            He hangs back with a frown. It is after nine. He walked through the forest, quickly, before he could change his mind. It is a close thing. Had he stopped for a moment, he thinks he might have just turned around and maybe never brought the matter up again.

            The shutters are closed. Has he been called away? Would that not be perfect. James finally finds the courage, and the apothecary is not even at home.

            He knocks again, louder this time.

            From inside, the dog barks. He hears movement, then a voice, but muffled. There are the thumps of feet on the staircase.

            _Just be honest_. Easier said than done.

            The locks unlatch, and Ezra opens the door, his eyes bleary and his hair a disaster. He is in his nightshirt, a blanket around his shoulders. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

            “Sorry—“

            “You said you were leaving with the light tomorrow—“

            James is moving backwards, deciding that this was a terrible idea. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

            “You should be. Stop walking away. You’re here, you’re going to come in—“

            “Never mind,” James says gruffly, jumping off the porch.

            He gets about ten feet before Ezra barks out, “James McGraw!”

            Not another soul alive would use his name. A deep furrow between his brows, James turns around.

            His expression perplexed, Ezra leans against the balcony. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you so quick to run from anything, and therefore I must confess that I am curious, sir. What has brought you to my doorstep?” James says nothing, glancing away into the woods. Exasperated, Ezra continues, “So help me, James, speak up, or I’ll go get my sword.”

            _Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look_.

            James puts his hands behind his back, standing with shoulders squared, and says, “I realized that I’ve never even said Thomas’ name to you.”

            Ezra’s expression changes. Tilting his head, he replies after a moment, “No. You have not.”

            “Nor Miranda’s. I believe—I have done a great disservice to you all. I’ve not trusted you as a friend should. And I haven’t honoured them.”

            He bows his head. He has told this story once before. That acquaintanceship did not end well. What he is doing now takes more faith than he thought himself capable.

            “It’s a beautiful night.” James looks up. Ezra watches the sky. The sun is just past the hill, and the sky to the east is darkening. Ezra returns his gaze to James. “I’m of the mood to sit on the back step and have a talk. Would you like to do that?”

            It takes a moment, but James nods.

 

When James finishes, the sky is black and filled with endless stars. It is chill. He should have taken Ezra up on the offer of a blanket, but he did not. Instead, he tries not to shiver, his arms propped on his knees.

            Ezra is completely bundled up in his own blanket, leaving just his head exposed. Tonight, he asked no questions. He let James tell things in his own way, taking as much time as he needed.

            James told him things he has never told anyone else. He knew no one else would understand. Of anyone alive, though, he knows that Ezra would.

            Finally, when James can bear the silence no longer, he says, “What are you thinking?”

            Gazing at the stars, Ezra answers, “I am thinking it is…uncanny, that you and I should exist so close to one another. I don’t know that I believe in God, but to have men so similar find one another…it does seem like a divine hand.”

            “Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.” At Ezra’s raised brow, James translates, “What’s meant to happen will happen.”

            “Your story makes me very sad indeed, James.”

            “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

            “I didn’t say I pity you. I said that I feel sad.” Ezra wraps his arms around his knees. “To have had him so for short a time, and for your rage to be so great…he must have been a most remarkable man.”

            James shifts in his seat. He does not know what else to add.

            No, that is a lie. It is a bald faced lie, and he needs to tell the truth. He must it say it to somewhere, or go mad for the wondering.

            Folding his fingers together, James says, “I have pondered lately…what he would think of what I became. I’ve been thinking how…the man I became, he would never have him.”

            “Then he never loved you to begin with.”

            It takes a second for the words to sink in. When they do, James looks at Ezra sharply.

            Unfazed, Ezra continues, “When someone loves you, they cannot have you only at your best. They are consenting to have you at your worst as well. Do you think he really loved you?”

            “I do.”

            Ezra shrugs, and returns his watchful eyes to the sky above. “Then of course he would love you as you are now.”

            It is the most comfort James has felt in ages. He glances over as Ezra lays his head upon his shoulder, yawning. He smiles slightly. He tries to remember the last time someone put their head upon his shoulder. “We are two sentimental idiots, are we not,” James murmurs.

            “We are indeed.” Ezra sighs, seeming to settle in. “But we are free of shame, and that is what counts.”

            Letting out a soft exhale, James admits, “I—don’t know that I always am. I don’t know that I quite live up to the examples I have been set.”

            “Ein danim et ha’adâm ela lefi ma’asov shel ota sha’â.”

            “And that is?”

            Ezra explains, “A person is judged only by his acts at the time. We can all of us start over, James. We can be the men we want to be. We only need try.”

            James thinks about that, then leans back against the door. He rests his head on top of Ezra’s, and wonders if even he could have a second chance at life.


	22. Portsmouth

The smell of it. God, it is intoxicating.

            He stands perfectly still, his eyes closed. With nothing else in his mind, he breathes in. The scent of salt water fills him entirely. It is as if he has been deprived of air for months, become used to the hardship, but now he is reminded of what he lost.

            Opening his eyes, James beholds the sea.

            It is beyond all number of ships. He has to look through riggings and past hulls, and somehow that makes it better. The water, holding all these vessels, just waiting for them to travel across her, reap her riches. He listens to the familiar yells, watches the bustle of people coming on and off the pier, and feels a sense of placement. This—this is where he is supposed to be.

            He has only been to Portsmouth once before, but he realizes how desperately homesick he has been for the sea.

            He came in last night, and after five days on the road, he was more than ready for sleep. It was the calmest night he had in some time, the window left open so that he could hear the water. First thing this morning, and here he is. Down at the docks, aching for it.

            It has been some months since he had this thought, but now it is the only thing in James’ mind. _I must go back to sea._ There is a nice little sloop, well built and maybe a mere sixty feet long, but it would get wherever he wanted to go. A small crew. Better than trying to handle a hundred or two hundred men. They do brisk trade here, on the Triangle.

            James sees slaves being pulled off a ship, and in the past, it would not bother him. But he thinks of Ezra’s Henry. He thinks of Mr. Smith and the Maroons. These people looked starved and dazed, stumbling by in chains.

            _They’re just negroes._

_And you’re just a murdering bastard._

            He looks at the tallest of the men, one of the few who do not look unbowed. Ezra _married_ a man like that. Not just a man, but a man who looked like that.

            Someone begins singing ‘Randy Dandy O’ and James is distracted. He turns his eyes back to the water. It looks to be a clear day, a light wind coming up. He crosses his arms, watching the comings and goings.

           

“How long have you been away?”

            He looks to his side, at the wizened creature limping over to him. The man is missing his right leg all the way up to the thigh, but seems to get around all right with an old crutch. Half his teeth have gone, and his clothes look ragged, but he wears a black hat that is newer than the one on James’ head.

            “I beg your pardon,” James says coldly.

            The man comes to rest beside him, looking at the water. He nods towards the distance. “How long now since you’ve left her watery embrace?”

            James smiles, lopsided. “That obvious?”

            “Well, I see you standing over here the last half hour, looking like you’re about three seconds away from jumping off the dock and swimming as far as your arms and legs will take you. So? How long?”

            “A little less than a year. Yourself?”   

            “Oh—“ He nods down to his absent limb. “Nearly twenty now. I was boatswain on a merchant vessel. The _London Rose_. Spanish privateers opened fire on us. One of our cannons exploded, took my leg. At my wife’s insistence, I retired from a seafaring life after that.”

            “Was she glad for it?”

            The old man nods. “Aye. Gone these past two years. I find myself coming down here in the mornings, when the sun is rising and it all looks like something from a book.” He grins at James with his mouthful of missing teeth. “A sailor recognizes his own.”

            “He does indeed.”

            “You’re still young enough. Why aren’t you out there?”

            “I’m not all that young. I’ll be forty seven soon enough.”

            “And I’ll be sixty four come August. I have you beat.”

            James shrugs, and says, “I had a run of bad luck. I made it out alive, but my ship, my crew—all gone. Bad luck to go back out, I think.”

            “Aye. But look at her.” They gaze together at the lazy grey waves, and James hears the call. The ocean always calls. The old man holds out his left hand. “Gerald McCormick.”

            “James Moore.”

            The old man’s grip is stronger than his frame would suggest, a classic sailor’s handshake. “Well, Mr. Moore, I may not look like much, but if you decide you want to go out there, come and see me. I know most the men who come through here, and they know me. Hate to see a man not where he’s meant to be. Especially when I know what it’s like.” He turns, hobbling away. “Well, good day to you, sir!”          

            “Good day,” James says quietly.

           

“ _The Common Rights of Subjects, Defended_ ,” the man murmurs, “Mr. Pope’s latest translations of _The Iliad_ , _The Epistles of Clio and Strephon_ —your friend does not care for a light read, does he?”

            “I would not say so, sir, no.”

            “’Anything on monsters, mythology, and fairy stories.’ Well, that might count.” The portly man with the ponytail frowns at the list, then says, “If you’ll give me a few moments, sir, I will see what I can put together.”

            James nods. “I’ll be most obliged to you.” The man scurries away, and James is left to browse the book shop on his own.

            Book shops. Now this is a rarity. Not a thing usually found in the West Indies. He scrounged his collection together from volumes taken from ships he boarded. The last time he was in a real book shop would have been 1706, a few months before leaving London for good.

            He smiles a little, coming upon a copy of _Meditations_. He has it committed nearly to memory, but no copy of his own. Picking it up, he flips through it. Yes. Yes, he should have this.

            “Sir.” James turns around. The bookseller has returned from the back. He raises the list and says, “Forgive me for asking, but—is this for Ezra Wake?”

            “Yes?” James replies cautiously.

            With a roll of the eyes, the man turns suddenly cheerful. “Why didn’t you say that from the start? I should have known—philosophy and monsters. I put books aside as they come in that he might want. He’s one of my best customers. I swear, he buys them by the pound. Pity I only get him in here twice a year, or I think I’d be a rich man.”

            “Are any of the ones he listed in those you put aside?”

            “Ah, two of them. Do you know him well, sir? Do you want to have a look at the others?”

            James finds himself reaching for his pocket. “I’ll pay for the ones you set aside.”

            “Oh—there’s about twenty of them—“

            Nodding, James says firmly, “I’ll pay for them.”

 

After a good half hour spent lying on his back, James lets out a sigh. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he goes to the open window. Pulling up a chair, he sits down, and looks out to the water.

            Everywhere he goes, he can smell it. He does not know that a landsman would. After a few minutes, they would probably acclimate themselves, and not know the difference. James, though, can smell the sea in everything.

            He has missed the water, almost as much as he has missed sailing. As is his way, he has put the thoughts of what he lost out of mind. A man could go mad thinking about his losses. Only, being here, seeing the sea and the ships, he wants desperately to be back out there.

            It would be easy enough, to secure a vessel. Well, perhaps not easy. Their ways are different here. It is not like the Indies, where he could just bully his way into a captaincy. Here, things are run by merchants. No way he simply walks into someone’s office without reference and expects to walk out with a command post.

            And if he meant to take a ship by force, he would have to spend time here, would have to maneuver and scheme. He could do that. God knows he has before. Here, though, he would have to be far more careful than along the equator. This is not a lawless place. This place is English, and that means swift reprisals. It is not like the ocean, and not like Nassau, and not like The Edge. It would take some time to build allies.

            _How old would you be by then_?

            James grimaces, rubbing his hands together. They are still strong and rough after a lifetime spent on the waves. But how much longer will they last? The rest of him, how much longer will it be good for? All good captains have an expiration date. Is it so hard to believe he might be past his?

            He balks at the thought, wants to refuse it outright. No one can deny that he has done more in a few years than most men could in a lifetime. And yet—where are the fruits of his labour? Where are his spoils? He has some money, yes. What else? What else for all his years does he have?

            It is so difficult to simply stay on a single path in one’s mind. There are the days when he knows he has made the right decision, retiring from this life, where he is willing to admit the mistakes he has made. Those days are tipping the balance, yes. Still, there are the times when he cannot let go.

            Flint has his claws into him, and James despairs of him ever letting go.

            He puts an arm along the windowsill, resting his head against the frame. There are distant voices, but he feels calmer here than he ever has during his nights in his new home. To be near to the sea—to at least have that—

            _And what? Be a fisherman? Have a little boat and go out and come home with no more than to fill your dinner plate? Is that what you’re worth?_

James sets his jaw and reminds himself, _I went mad_. Perhaps he was insane the entire time he was in the Indies. Perhaps Flint was just the face his madness wore. Thomas ended up in Bedlam, but James is the one who lost his mind. The part of him that wants to be all puffed up about his deeds, that is the part that refuses to recognize how futile his quest was, how great the damage he wrought.

            He cannot allow himself to forget.

            _I cannot captain again_ , he tells himself, and scowls. It does not feel right to think. In truth, it feels like a betrayal. He is a sailor. That is what he knows. It is in his blood.

            _Why should I go back_? he asks himself. What is there for him in The Edge save Ezra? God only knows if he is worth denying himself for. Ezra might spend the rest of his days unable or unwilling to return these unexpected feelings that James has developed for him. James cannot begrudge him that. It has been fifteen years and even now he feels that these affections are still a betrayal of Thomas. He understands what Ezra mourns. It makes little sense to return to the middle of nowhere, pining for a man who might never have him.

            He could stay here. With his expertise, and the money he has saved, he could maybe be a merchant himself. There are few who know as much as he about ships and sailing. Always a need for sail cloth and rope, for all the necessities of a life on the waves. Those must be sold, and with his knowledge, he could find good product for good price.

            And he would be here, by the water. Perhaps that would not appease Flint, but McGraw—he would be most pleased by that. A life amongst at least the familiar. Around people who know the words, who have shared experiences, who know the siren song. He would not be so alone.

            He would go back to The Edge. Gather his things. Say his goodbyes. Perhaps to no one save Ezra and the Frasers. He could come back here, and exist somewhere between land and sea.

            Or not. He honestly has no idea what he wants. Not really.

            Inhaling the old familiar scents, James watches the stars rise above the horizon.

 

Another thing he has missed. James puts more cod into his mouth and thinks about all the bloody vegetables he has eaten over the past year, and feels _deprived_.

            Baked cod. Good God, he has missed fish.

            It is mid-day, and he is in a crowded tavern. He has a small table off near the back, near the kitchen. He has finished all his tasks, purchased everything on the villagers’ lists, and has no other plans than to do as he pleases. He might go down to the docks again, and watch the ships. Maybe see if that old man was about. Ask him some questions about what opportunities a retired sailor could find.

            It is not that he is certain about moving here. It is just an option to consider.

            The fish is salty on his tongue, and he has barely swallowed one mouthful before he is pushing in another. He has purchased plenty of dried cod to take with him back to the house. Right now, though, it is hot and fresh and plentiful.

            James sits back a little, chewing, and has a look around. People of all sorts in here. All strangers. No one knows his business here. No one would gossip, or speculate.

            _Yes, it’s probably perfect. Any other fantasies you’d like to conjure?_

He snorts and reaches for his cup. Maybe he is romanticizing things a bit. The sea has taken from him more than it has given, just as it does with all men.

            His eyes catch.

            The man who was looking at him quickly lowers his head.

            James lifts the cup to his mouth casually. He does not drink, letting his eyes drift across the room.

            The man looks like any number of sailors he has had under his command. Rough, a scar across his face, a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. Nonetheless, he has gone white as a sheet. He glances back at James, and looks ill.

            _Fuck_.

            Putting down the cup, James pulls out a few coins from his pocket, watching the man from his peripheral vision. With a mutter, the man pushes up from the table, and walks briskly towards the door. Out the window, James can see him turn to the left.

            Smoothly, James gets up from his table and walks back towards the kitchen. The barkeep says, “Hey there—“

            James tosses him the money, about twice what the meal would have been, and says, “Excuse me.”

            He ducks out of the kitchen through the back door, taking quick steps down the alley. He is not wearing the loaned sword, but he is not so daft as to walk around this city unarmed. Hiking up the back of his waistcoat so that he can grab the dagger tucked into his breeches, James twirls the blade in his hand, then waits at the mouth of the alleyway.

            When the man steps in front of him, James grabs him by the collar and swings him around, slamming him against the wall. The sailor lets out an _oof_ of surprise, and James gives him a hard punch to the head, dragging him away from where they are easily seen.

            Then he pushes the man against the wall, and makes to cut his throat.

            The blade pauses against the skin.

            James stares at the man. He is completely ordinary. There is no reason his hand should stay. He has been recognized, of that he has no doubt. There is only one course of action. Of course there is only the one.

            And yet the blade does not move.

            Pinning the man to the wall by his shoulders, James hisses, “Tell me why I don’t kill you.”

            Terrified, eyes wide, the man says, “What?”

            Pushing the blade in just far enough to draw blood, to make the man cringe, James repeats, “Tell me why I don’t kill you. You know who I am.”

            “I don’t.”

            “You do.”

            “I don’t, sir, I don’t—“

            “You do, and that means I should kill you right here and now. So give me a good reason why I shouldn’t. Tell me why you should live.”

            Shaking his head, the man is too scared to speak for a moment, or maybe just confused. “I don’t have—a good reason, sir. But please—please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.”

            He does not seem that bright. Sounds like he’s from Cheapside. “What’s your name?”

            “Murray, sir. Nathaniel Murray.”

            “And what do your crewmates call you?”

            “Just Murray, sir. Don’t—don’t got no nickname.”

            “What ship do you sail?”

            “ _Olivia_ , sir. I—I sail on the _Olivia_.”

            James can tell he is telling the truth. He is too stupid and scared to lie.

            _Kill him. You have to kill him_.

            _I don’t have to do a_ damned _thing._

Leaning in close, so close the man recoils against the bricks, James hisses, “Listen closely, Murray. All I want—is to be left the fuck alone. But if, for some inexplicable reason, I found myself having to pull up stakes because of some miserable wretch who thought he ought tell tales—“

            “I wouldn’t, sir, I wouldn’t—“

            “Really? Not to your crewmates? Not when you’ve had too much to drink and you want to impress?”

            “No—Jesus, not if it means I feed the fish—“

            “Maybe I should cut out your tongue to be sure—“

            Squirming, the man closes his eyes. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh—“

            Just like that, James finds that he is finished. He does not want to kill this man. Hell, he does not even want to injure him. It is foolish—but perhaps he is merely a fool.

            Stepping away, James says, “Nathaniel Murray, of the _Olivia_ —if anyone ever darkens my door, I will kill them, and then I will come for you. I’ll kill every person on your ship, and every person you have ever loved. Do you believe that?”

            Nodding emphatically, Murray says, “I do—“

            James juts his chin back out to the street. “Then fuck off.”

            For a moment, the man just hangs against the wall. Pushing himself off, he stumbles away, looking at James as if he cannot quite believe what has happened. Once he gets a few feet away, he starts to run, then disappears out onto the street.

            James inhales deeply. That was a very, _very_ foolhardy thing to do. He knows it is a mistake. He knows that whether it is two days or two weeks or two months from now, that man is going to open his mouth and tell his crewmates, his wife, _someone_ that he saw Captain Flint in Portsmouth. It is an inevitability. Word will spread. Of course it will.

            _Why did you just do that_?

            And it is not anyone else’s voice, but his own.

            Tucking his dagger back into his pants, James adjusts his hat, then walks to the mouth of the street. Crossing his arms, he watches the few people passing by. No one takes any notice of him other than to nod slightly as they pass, which he returns.

            Then his eyes find the shop across the street.

            He knows exactly why he let that man live.

            With a sigh, James waits for a carriage to trundle by, then he walks across the road and into the shop.

 

It is a little after two. Putting the harness over Marcus’ head, James pats his nose. “Don’t say it. I know I said we’d be here the two days, but—plans change.”

            The horse blows out an unimpressed breath.

            Running a hand along Marcus’ side as James returns to the wagon, he checks once more to make sure that everything is secure. It will take them longer to return to the mountains than it did to leave them with the weight of the wagon, and perhaps it is better that they leave now. Marcus is not exactly a pack animal, after all.

            James inhales the air with focus, just one more time.

            _We shall see_ , he thinks.

            Climbing onto the wagon, he picks up the reins. With a flick, he gets Marcus moving, the wagon pulling forward with a jolt.

            As he leaves Portsmouth, he does not once look back at the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,  
> Just another thanks--the story galloped past a thousand hits yesterday. I'm ever grateful for the time you've given this strange, long story. You're all made of stars. Well, and other stuff too, but I suppose I shouldn't go into a medical terminology lesson in this note.  
> So as always--thanks.


	23. L'fum Tzara Agra

It took five days to reach Portsmouth, Marcus clipping along at his usual pace, even with the hindrance of the empty wagon. The journey home, though, stretches to seven.

            James does not push him, though the more time he is on the road, the more eager he finds himself to return to The Edge. It is a long journey, and a quiet one. He finds himself yearning for home. For company.

            He pulls off the road at night, sleeping under the stars. It is starting to feel like summer, each day incrementally warmer. He lies in the back of the wagon, on top the wood he bought, and tracks the constellations’ course across the sky. Cygnus, Aquila, Lyra. Orion, the winter constellation, has nearly gone.

            One night he wakes to the sound of howls. Marcus spooks, and James gets off the wagon, going to him. “Easy, there,” he says, stroking the horse’s neck. The noise of the wolves comes to them on the breeze, from a long way off. “Steady.”

            A bear crosses their path the next day. This time, Marcus actually starts backing up. James keeps a firm hand on the reins, watching to see what will happen. It is the first time he has ever seen one of these animals in the wild.

            It is not that close to them, maybe a furlong away. But James can see it is sizeable. It is black as soot, and does not seem all that concerned about them. Swinging its head towards them, it ponders them a moment, then finishes crossing the road, disappearing back into the woods from which it emerged.

            He thinks of the trophies he has seen stuffed in rich men’s homes. Always placed in the most fearsome of poses. This animal did not bother to even worry about him. James is practically in its territory, after all.

            That will not last. Humans—they have a tendency to consume all they see.

 

He arrives in Siddeston in mid-afternoon on the sixth day. He does not mean to stop for any longer than necessary.

            He stops by Martha Richards’ house, tapping on the front door. When she answers, she gives him a long look and says, “Better.”

            She convinces him to stay long enough to eat, and for Marcus to be fed and watered, but he cannot be talked into staying the night.

            “Eager to be back home?” she asks, ladling out more soup.

            “Eager for the journey to be over.” Wondering if he is making a fool of himself, James withdraws a round stone he took from the seaside out of his pocket, and offers it to her. “Would this be suitable?”

            She looks at it a moment, then her disagreeable face breaks into a nearly sweet smile. Taking it from his hand, she puts a hand to his back and kisses the top of his head. “Good boy. Toda.”

            James finds himself blushing, and just nods and continues eating.

 

The sun has set and twilight is moving in as they come to the places they know. When they pass the huge sugar maple that serves as the marker for how far they go when out riding, James tosses his hat onto the back of the wagon. They are nearly home, another five miles or so. No need to be polite.

            He is in his new coat. Brown. It fits quite nicely. Yes, it is nearly summer, but the cloak he wore all winter…well, it looked a little dramatic. He does not need to stand out, and he is intimidating enough as it is. There is a cold breeze out tonight. Spring has not yet given way entirely.

            It will be too late for visiting when he gets home. That is probably for the best. James is all aches and pains right now. His ass hurts from a week spent bumping up and down on the wagon seat, and his back is terribly sore. He wonders if it is age, or if it is because he is unaccustomed to long journeys in this manner. He hopes it is not the former, but one day, soon enough, he will have to admit that his time has passed.

            There are only going to be so many years left for second chances.

            It is a sobering thought, but a true one. He needs to make decisions. He has been dithering. That is the truth of it. In this place one moment, in his mind the next. He has to choose. Uncertainty is not his trademark. He needs to find that piece of himself again.

            Tomorrow. Tomorrow can be a day for deciding. All he need do now is get home, and let Marcus get some well-deserved rest, and then fall into his bed. Right now, that sounds like the best of all possible worlds.

            The sky has gone indigo as he approaches the lane to his home. Marcus picks up his pace, knowing the way, and both tired and eager as he is to cross the last of the way.

            Then James hears a sharp whistle in the distance.

            He raises his head. Down the road, atop his horse, Ezra waves.

            James realizes that his mouth has drawn into a smile. _Stop that_ , he tells himself. He clicks in his cheek, urging Marcus onwards. When he reaches the top of the lane, he pulls up the reins, and waits for Ezra to meet him.

            Bouncing lightly on top of the horse, it takes about a minute for Ezra to meet him. Unlike James, he does not try to hide how pleased he is to see him. Christ, James wishes he would not smile like that. The man is attractive enough as it is. When he smiles, it is simply unfair.

            “Mr. Wake,” James calls.

            Bringing Kelpie to a halt besides Marcus, Ezra says with pleasure, “Mr. McGraw. I thought you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.”

            “Marcus was terribly homesick. Wouldn’t stop fussing.”

            Reaching over, Ezra runs a hand over Marcus’ muzzle. “Is that true?” The horse blows aside his hand, and Ezra snorts.

            Crossing his arms on his knees, James says, “Wake, I think this may only be the second time I’ve ever seen you on that horse.”

            “You know me. Not much of a rider. Prefer to walk.” Ezra nods back over his shoulder towards town with a roll of the eyes. “But one of the Ryders’ children came out in spots and a fever, and when he came out here to get me, I suppose I may have panicked slightly. I don’t care to have a repeat of last fall.”

            “Wasn’t, though.”

            “No, the child has chicken pox. Some cousins their age from Siddeston came visiting while you were gone, probably spread it to them. No concern, save I’d barely gotten home for the night and had to rush out to look after that entirely troublesome family again.” Ezra takes a deep breath, then laughs slightly. “You don’t want to hear about this. You’re exhausted. Eager to welcome you back, I suppose.”

            “Oh, you can’t have missed me that much.”

            Ezra bites his lip, then opens his mouth to speak. But, to James’ surprise, he closes it again. It is maybe the first time he has ever seen Ezra not say a thing. He can tell that Ezra is aware of it too, from the way he ducks his head a little, seemingly amused by himself.

            _Just give it to him, you idiot_.

            Clearing his throat, James reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I picked something up for you.” He tosses the small package to Ezra, who catches it with both hands. When Ezra goes to pull at the tie, James warns, “I’d not do that out here. They’d likely spill all over the road.”

            Brow furrowed, Ezra asks, “What is it?”

            Coughing again, James says evenly, “Strings. For your violin.” For some unknown reason, maybe because of Ezra’s unblinking gaze, James feels like he needs to further explain himself. “You intimated that the ones you had weren’t doing the job, so—I asked the man at the shop for the finest he sold. If you break those in a day, it’ll probably say more about you than it does the instrument.”

            He is blushing. James McGraw—sailor, pirate, murderer—is blushing like a boy. He looks down at his hands, still loosely holding the reins.

            More seconds go by than he would like. Ezra probably thinks him foolish. Can probably see right through him, probably thinks he is a damned—

            “Get down from there.”

            Lifting his head, James replies, “What?”

            Ezra has swung his leg over Kelpie’s wide back, hopping down to the ground. He takes two steps towards James and repeats, “Get down from there.”

            Pausing a moment, James sets down the reins. He climbs off the wagon, hoping he does a passing job at covering his wince of pain.

            But it does not matter. What matters is Ezra watching his every move, unblinking, solemn. Taking another step towards James, he leans past him and sets the strings down on the wagon seat. He is close enough that there are little more than inches separating them.

            He looks up at James with his strange dark eyes, nothing on his face revealing what he thinks. James lets him look. He would let this man do whatever he wanted. He is just glad for his nearness.

            Reaching up, Ezra hesitates, but then he slips his hand around the back of James’ neck. He stands higher, gently tugging on James’ neck, watching his eyes through every single second. James bends his head, and Ezra kisses him.

            Ezra breathes in sharply, as if he has had a shock. James wraps his arms around Ezra’s back before the man can change his mind, chasing the kiss. He pins Ezra up close to his body, making the shorter man stand on the balls of his feet. There is no hesitancy to the kiss, but there is no fury to it either. James feels a current running through him, strong and sure, as Ezra hooks his arms around his neck, taking James’ lower lip between his own. They move together while barely moving at all.

            For a good long moment they stay that way, quiet, hidden between their horses, until finally James pulls back a little. Ezra drops down on his feet, eyes closed. James can feel him trembling.

            Putting a hand to his face, James teases, “Is that all I had to do? Buy you something?”

            Ezra breaks out laughing, his forehead falling against James’ chin. “Apparently. I admit, I am partial to gifts.” He looks up at James’ again, but this time is expression is so young. It is _alive_. “I jest. You know that I jest.”

            Threading his fingers through Ezra’s black hair, James says, “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll spoil you, and see if you like it.”

            James kisses his forehead, and Ezra leans into it. Then he steps away, running his hands over James’ arms. “You must be tired.”

            James can see the question in his face. With a crooked smirk, James says, “Not that tired.”

            Ezra takes his hands, then says, “Come home with me.”

            His decisions are made. James looks down at Ezra, and answers quietly, “I shall do.”

            Yes—his decisions are made. When a man looks at you like that, even knowing all that you are, all you have done, only an idiot would turn his back. Would run away. James will not make the same mistake again.

            Ezra draws him forward, and James follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends Part Three: Spring.  
> As always, my gratitude to all of you for reading, and my appreciation for the most thoughtful, lively, and engaged comment section I've ever experienced for any of my works.  
> I'll see you back here on Tuesday for the final stretch--Summer.


	24. Summer: A Blessed Season

SUMMER

A snuffling sound, then a wetness on his arm wakes him up. James automatically pushes it away, hanging onto sleep with determination. But then a massive tongue slips across his forehead.

            Hissing, he pushes himself up on his elbows, and looks back. Black Shuck sits at the top of his bed, panting. With a deep inhale through the nose, James yawns. “Your dog wants to be let out.” When a moment passes and there is no reply, he looks to his side. Ezra has not moved at all since James woke in the middle of the night. He is still on his belly, hair hanging over his face, breathing in and out in a steady rhythm. James barks, “Wake!”

            Ezra jolts, lifting his head off the pillow an inch. “What?” he mumbles.

            “Your dog wants to be let out.”

            With a sigh, Ezra drops back down. “What are you bothering me about it for? God gave you two legs, didn’t he?” He pushes his hands up under the pillow, burrowing in.

            James watches him a moment, then rolls his eyes. After nearly three months of sharing this man’s bed, he knows that it nearly takes a cannon to get him to rise. The dog whimpers, and James says, “All right, all right.”

            He pushes himself up, climbing off the bed. Black Shuck trots along eagerly at his side. He has always been far more partial to James than his sister was. Unlatching the back door, James takes a moment to appreciate the heat. It promises to be another humid day.

            He stands in the doorway as the dog bounds off into the forest. It is likely a little after six, sun setting things aglow. Everything is still impossibly green and lush from all the rains they have seen this summer.

            Shutting the door, James turns to appraise Ezra in the shuttered dark. Like James, he is completely naked. He lies atop the blankets, dead to the world. His left hand has curled in front of his face, his ring visible.

            Shaking his head, James climbs back into place behind him. He always takes whatever side is closest to the wall, while Ezra prefers to nearly hang off the side of the bed. Some nights James will find him almost fallen to the floor, and haul him back onto the mattress. Ezra rarely wakes.

            Propping his head up on his hand, James looks the other man over. Even in the dim light of the house, James can see the ridges of his scars, and some of the bruises from earlier in the week, starting finally to fade. James reaches over, tracing his favourite of Ezra’s scars with his thumb. It moves away from the others, coming to stop at the top of the man’s perfect ass. Usually, when James runs his fingers over that scar, Ezra will squirm, and mutter, “Not fair.” Right now, though, he remains deep asleep.

            It is a strange thing. When he is with James, he is nearly impossible to roust. But on the occasions that someone comes banging on the door in search of him, he wakes immediately. The man has a second sense about when he must rise, and when he can linger.

            James lowers his hand, palming one of Ezra’s cheeks. He gives it a squeeze, watching for any indication that the man might be lifting to consciousness. No reaction whatsoever.

            It is a Wednesday morning, and he is forty seven years old, and God knows he was spent after last night. But he _wants_. With this man, he always wants.

            He pushes himself up, finding the oil that he keeps beneath the bed. They do not go through as much as they do at Ezra’s. Most of their nights together are spent there. Opening the bottle, James pours some of the liquid into his hand, then uses it to slick up his already interested cock. Closing the bottle one handed, he moves back down the bed.

            Pushing his right arm under Ezra’s neck, James reaches down with his left hand and slips his fingers between Ezra’s cleft. Easy as anything, he presses a finger inside, reaching deep.

            At that, Ezra finally shifts. Hair hiding his face, he murmurs, “What do you think _you’re_ doing?”

            Nose trailing along Ezra’s neck, James replies, “What does it feel like I’m doing?”

            “Like you’re taking advantage of an unconscious man. Least you could do was try and wake me up first.”

            “Tried that. You fell back asleep.”

            “I did not.”

            “Then where’s the dog?”

            After a second, Ezra raises his head. “Huh— _oh_.”

            Finger crooked deep inside Ezra, James grins. “Should I stop? Wouldn’t want you to feel taken advantage of.” He slips another finger in, and Ezra’s body pushes back against him and arches at the same time. Ezra reaches back over his shoulder, finding James’ face. Nipping into the flesh of his palm, James teases, “Is that a no?”

            “I’m still considering— _ah_ , Jesus, James—“

            “Is that a no?”

            “No, it’s not a no, you insufferable—“ Ezra cuts himself off with a whimper, shoving his hair back from his face.

            Working Ezra on his fingers, James murmurs to him, “You know what I like? I like finally knowing how to get you to shut the fuck up.”

            With a snort, Ezra responds, “Now you’re just—challenging me—“

            “What am I to do with you, eh? That reckless mouth of yours. Always going on and on. What am I to do with you?”

            He strokes back with his fingertips, making Ezra cry out. With a shake of the head, Ezra whispers, “Whatever you like.”

            “Whatever I like?”

            Nodding, Ezra repeats, “Whatever you like.”

            “Maybe I’ll just stop, then. Maybe that’s all you get.”

            “I’ll fucking kill you if you do.”

            “What happened to whatever I like?”

            “It threatened to come between me and my pleasure.”

            Pulling his arm around Ezra’s neck, James murmurs, “What if I want to return the favour for last night? Don’t think I’ve forgotten about all those bloody claw marks you put down my back.”

            “You deserved them.”

            “Oh, if I can think of one person who’s earned some marks, it’s you, Ezra Wake.” He pushes in a third finger, and Ezra presses his face to the pillow, biting his lips closed. “What if I sent you off to town with bites all over your neck? What would you do about that?”

            Struggling for breath, Ezra responds, “I’d put a poultice on it, tie a scarf around it, and tell people I had a reaction to some new remedy I was trying out.”

            “An answer for everything. That’s what you think you have.”

            “I know I have—James, for God’s sake—“

            “For God’s sake, what?”         

            He loves to see Ezra beg. This is nothing. This is early morning fooling about. When the nights come and they have nothing but hours, they can push one another to the breaking point.

            Fingertips ghosting along James’ stubble, Ezra whispers, “Please.”

            “Please?”

            Ezra nods. “Please.”

            James could drag it out, but after last night, he wants this. Lazy, quiet. Withdrawing his fingers, he watches Ezra buck slightly at the loss. His mouth quirks upwards. He loves knowing what makes this man twitch. Taking his cock in hand, he lines up, then pushes in with closed eyes, until they are flush against one another.

            For a moment they do nothing, laying side by side, bodies pressed together. James reaches over Ezra’s hip, finding his prick hard enough to point upwards. Wrapping his hand around it, he lowers his head, teeth fastening onto where Ezra’s neck meets his shoulder.

            Ezra lets out a soft moan, and James begins to move.

            There are times when Ezra meets him inch for inch, fighting James for it. Then there are the times like these when the other man simply lets James do what he wants. James does not prefer one over the other. Any way he can have Ezra satisfies him.

            He does love when Ezra is pliant like this for him. Where he does little, lets James take what he will, but there is no doubt that Ezra enjoys every second. He lets out the smallest of sounds, breath going shallow. His body follows the movements of James’, taking him, wanting to please him.

            To have a man so certain and cocksure be so accommodating is fucking intoxicating.

            He has never had anyone like this, male or female, who can change so utterly depending on the mood. In earlier days, he would have had his suspicion. Ezra Wake, the unparalleled liar. Were his reactions true? False? Those thoughts do not even cross James’ mind. Ezra is merely changeable, so opposite to his unforgiving rigidity. He adapts, according to the situation and his own whims.

            A man can fake many things, after all, but an orgasm is not one of them.

            James draws Ezra’s hand down, bringing it over his cock. With a breathless nod, Ezra strokes himself, the oil from James’ fingers rubbing off on his palm. Holding his other arm around Ezra’s neck, James rolls his hips, thrusting slowly into the smaller man.

            They can be slow. No shadows hang over them. No demand for furtiveness, for secrets. _Whoever troubled us,_ James thinks, _would quickly wish they had never existed._ The notion makes him grin. He pushes in deep and sharp, just to hear Ezra cry out. He does, and breathes James’ name.

            “What shall I do with you?” James whispers in his ear. “What shall I do with you?”

            Ezra merely says, “Please,” which never ceases to drive James wild. He loves how willing this lunatic can be for him, in a way that no one else could even fathom.

            Sometimes James is a selfish lay, but not today. The truth is, he almost never is with Ezra. He is as concerned with Ezra’s enjoyment as his own. Entwining his fingers with Ezra’s, he murmurs, “Going to get off before me, are you? Eager little thing that you are. Couldn’t hold back if you wanted.”

            “Not my fault—you take forever—“

            Bloody Ezra. Cock inside him up to the hilt, barely awake, and the man still runs his mouth. “Fine,” James returns. He clenches his arm around Ezra’s neck, taking hold of his hip, and ruts into him, steady, strong.

            The shiver of a breath that emits from Ezra’s mouth helps fuel the fire rising inside. A low growl comes from the back of James’ throat as Ezra rolls back against him. He never shies from taking James’ deep.

            There is no way that this could be better. James realizes it as Ezra spends onto the sheets. There is not a single thing about this that could be changed. The early morning heat, the sensation of skin upon skin, the way Ezra’s body goes taut as violin strings before loosening.

            James continues, focused, until control is a thing he can no longer grasp hold of. There is nothing but this, warmth and tightness and sweat and breath, and he disappears into it for glorious seconds of nothing.

            The absolute comfort of nothingness.

            The world comes back in a hazy flow. James peels his face from Ezra’s damp shoulder, letting out a small grumble of satisfaction. They lay together a moment, unmoving.

            Ezra murmurs, “Good morning.”

            “Morning.” James gives Ezra’s ass a light smack as he withdraws, falling onto his back.

            Pushing his hair back with both hands, Ezra yawns. “Out of mild curiosity, James, is it your personal mission to make sure I walk nowhere without limping?”

            “If it was, I’d make sure you wouldn’t walk at all.”

            Ezra throws his legs over the side of the bed. “Where’s the dog?” he asks. There is a bark from outside. “Ah.” He gets up to let Black Shuck in, stretching as he goes. Shameless in his nudity, fluids drying on the backs of his thighs.

            James grabs a rag he keeps near the bed for cleaning up after they finish. He looks back as Ezra opens the door, sleepily patting the dog on the head as it bounds in eagerly. Kicking the door shut, Ezra lets out another yawn, then tucks his hair back behind his ears. It comes down to his chin now. Any time he talks about cutting it, James will remind him how much they enjoy it when his fingers are clenched in it.

            “Go, go,” Ezra says sleepily to the dog. He walks over to the bucket of water kept on the counter, then makes a displeased noise. “James, when is the last time you swapped this out?”

            “Dunno. Two days?”

            “Disgusting. You are disgusting.”

            As Ezra cleans himself off, James says, “It’s not good for you to bathe all the time. You think you would know that, in your profession.”

            “There are times when I truly enjoy your company, and then there are times that I remember you are a disgusting, Gentile barbarian. And I do not mean that you are from Barbary.”

            Ezra starts getting dressed, and James puts his arms behind his head. “Barbarian, am I?”

            Pulling up his breeches, Ezra raises a brow. “Get no ideas, sir. I have work.”

            James almost takes the bait, but the truth of it is, he is not so quick to go again as Ezra. The man is ten years younger than him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

            Buttoning his shirt, Ezra asks, “Cabinet today?”

            “Mm.”

            “When do you think you’ll fall out of bed to do that?”

            “I’m not hearing this from you of all people.”

            “What about me?”

            “It takes a bloody volley to get you up in the morning.”

            “You’re exaggerating,” Ezra responds, slipping into his waistcoat. James rolls his eyes, and Ezra smiles crookedly. He glances at James. “Mine tonight?”

            Shrugging, James answers, “Should I bother? Someone was complaining about his ability to walk.”

            Shaking his head, Ezra puts his hands on the backs of his hips. “Well—I shall see you when I see you, then.”

            “You shall,” James says, not moving.

            Ezra blows out a breath, and teases, “All romance, you are. Come on, Shuck.” He pats the side of his thigh, and the dog follows him to the door. Stepping into his shoes, Ezra unlatches the door, shooing the dog out. James waits to see if he will say goodbye, but Ezra merely goes out the door after the dog.

            Sometimes it is like that with them. It is not like James has to court the man. They are bedmates. He does not have to woo anyone. Sometimes in the morning, when they part, they just go, without goodbyes.

            But then Ezra sticks his head back in and says, “For Christ’s sake, if you are coming to mine, do me a favour and wash first. You leave a dreadful smell when you’re over.”

            “Fuck yourself.”

            Ezra kisses the air, then disappears with a saucy grin. As the door latches after him, James lets himself smile.

            Things could certainly be much worse.

 

It is not a thing he could write down, but the past three months have quite possibly been the happiest of James’ life. He is loath to acknowledge it, though. He has been through enough that he thinks to name a thing might be to court destruction.

            Ever since that night he returned in May, things have been shockingly content. It left him on the edge of worry, at first, after the beginning of this blessed summer.

            When Ezra took him back to his house that night, at first they went about things in the dark. The only thing Ezra said had been to the dog, putting him outside and telling him to stay. Then it was just the two of them, in an absence of light, going by touch. Fingers on buttons, mouth on mouth, not going too quick about anything in the beginning. But once James had his hands on Ezra’s back, once he could feel all the scars under his fingers, he could not hold back anymore. He picked Ezra up, making the other man gasp. Ezra wrapped his arms and legs around him as James carried him up the stairs, to where there was light.

            It was more than he had dared hope.

            The next morning, James slipped away. It was the first time he discovered how deeply Ezra slept, and James made an easy escape. He was exhausted from his journey, but the thought of being there when Ezra woke, somehow it made him queasy. He went home, slept the entire day through, and that evening, when the knock came at his door, he felt a bit reluctant to open it.

            It made little sense. He wanted Ezra. He had initiated things with him. He had enjoyed last night—Jesus Christ almighty, had he enjoyed last night—but here he was, stopping before answering the door.

            When he opened it, Ezra did not bother to say hello. Instead, bracing himself against the doorway, he said with unblinking eyes, “You know, if you run off in the mornings without so much as a farewell, you only deprive yourself of the possibility of putting your cock in my mouth.”

            James tried to push down his smile, but there was no way to completely smother it. “That so.”

            “Mm.” Ezra stepped inside, pushing the door closed. Then he grabbed James by the shirt, spinning him about, and slammed him up against the door. With a wicked smile, he went down to his knees. His nimble fingers worked on the buttons of James’ breeches as James quickly went hard for him. “Been a few years since I’ve done this. Supposed to use my teeth a lot, right?”

            “You do and you’ll have some teeth marks of your own.”

            Ezra just looked up at him. “Do you _really_ think I would mind?”      

            After, James draped back against the door, Ezra got to his feet and said, “Can’t run now. Besides, you’ve books for me, so don’t think I’ll be easily rid of.”

            “Swear to Christ,” James replied, refastening his breeches, “you trade favours for goods like a whore.”

            With a roll of the eyes, Ezra said, “Might I remind you, it was my money bought those books.” James cleared his throat, sheepish, and Ezra stopped. “What?”

            “I—may have bought you books as well.”

            Ezra looked at him a moment, inscrutable. He put his hands behind his back, tilting his head. “Mr. McGraw. To be perfectly clear, I do not require gifts. I’ve my own money, and I’ve no intention of being owned.”

            “That was not my intent—“

            “What was your intent?”

            Scowling, James pushed away from the door. “Oh—“

            Ezra stepped quickly in front of him. “Say it,” he said, a low threat in his tone. “Say the words. I’m far more interested in that than things.”

            “Say what?” James challenged, stepping up to him. “Were you hoping for some sweeping declaration?”

            Shaking his head, Ezra answered, “No, for I’m an adult, and I know those kinds of words mean little. I prefer my declarations plain, and I’d have one from you. Do words scare you so much?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Tell me why you bought me books.” James made to move away, but Ezra lifted a hand. Not touching him, not even that close to him, but it stopped James nonetheless. He looked up at James, affection in his eyes. “Tell me why you bought me books,” he murmured.

            James studied him a moment, hating as always being told what to do. It was such an innocuous request, and it also was not, both of them knowing it. “The ones I bought weren’t on your list. I thought they’d please you.”

            “And why would you want to do that?”

            “Damn it, Wake, why are you doing this?”

            “Because some men only fuck, and some men only like to be fucked. You’re the former, and I’m the latter, and unapologetically. But sometimes the first kind of man thinks he’s in control, that his word is law, because the second kind does something considered unmanly. I want to be very clear that if you treat me like that, it will be the last time you ever set your hands on me. I am my own man. About that I must be most clear.”

            Like that, much of James’ apprehension faded. “It was in no way my intention to imply that you weren’t.”

            Ezra paused, then nodded. “I know. I can’t help but—be wary. It has been some time since I’ve done this, and you’re only the second man I’ve given a damn about enough to take to my bed. Perhaps I wanted to embarrass you a little. To make sure you did not try to do the same to me.”

            “You are at times impossibly complex.”

            “At times?” Ezra said, offended.

            James took a risk. He reached out, tucking a lock of hair back behind Ezra’s ear. Ezra turned into the touch, eyelids lowering to half-mast. “I’d be a fool to think I could own you. And perhaps sometimes I am a fool. But I don’t think lesser of you.” He moved closer, putting his other hand to Ezra’s face. He grinned. “For Christ’s sake, Wake, I’ve seen you chop the limbs off a man like he was a cord of wood.”

            That made Ezra smile, and James bent down, kissing his mouth cautiously. It was a surprise, the taste, and it distracted him from how hesitantly Ezra had placed his hands on James’ sides.

            When James pulled back an inch, he said, “Forgot how that tastes.”

            Raising a brow, Ezra responded, “You come in my mouth, don’t think for a moment I’ll let you away without kissing me after.”

            “You want that?”

            “I wouldn’t mind.”

            “Why?”

            “Is it your turn to challenge me?”

            “Yes.”

            Ezra inhaled, and admitted quietly, “I like kisses. And books.” Then he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around James, and laid his head upon his shoulder. For a moment, James was taken aback. It had been a long time since someone tried to hold him like that. His one arm went around Ezra, and his other hand lifted to Ezra’s hair. He stroked his hair, resting his cheek against Ezra’s head.

            After a long moment, Ezra pushed away. He was blushing. “Well, show me my books, old man.”

            James gave him a shove. “You’re not that young yourself.”

            “No, nor am I as old as you.”

            They danced around one another the first few weeks, working out the perimeters of their arrangement. Sometimes they irritated the living hell out of one another, and the first month James ended up storming away from Ezra several times.

            Every time he returned, unable to stay away from the man.

            The words they used with one another fell into place. The both of them had no issue with saying what they wanted when it came to sex, but their feelings towards one another were never more than obliquely outlined. Occasionally, one would say to the other, “I am quite fond of you,” and the other would respond with a smile or a jest. Once Ezra tackled James to the ground after James said the words. After three months, though, they had not said more than that, nor did James expect them to.

            They are both cautious men, who lost the people they loved. Ezra still wears his rings, and James has not spoken again of the Hamiltons. Perhaps having lost people so dear, neither are eager to rush, or to define a thing.

            Over the past three months, though, James has become increasingly aware of a potentially frightening thing. He is at Ezra’s perhaps four nights a week, and Ezra is at his once, and the other two nights they spend apart. It should seem like too much time together. James has almost never wanted the company of others, particularly a specific other.

            Only the two nights he sleeps alone, he finds that the house feels quiet. It is difficult to sleep. He has learned by now not to simply lay there, waiting for sleep to come to him. If the light is still there, he might work on the cabinet. If the light is gone, he will take a candle and read by it until his eyes grow heavy and sleep is no longer his enemy.

            No, to simply lay there is to invite all manner of thought. He keeps himself busy enough during the days—tending the garden, reading, working on one of his projects. There seems no earthly reason to let his mind take over when there is something else to do.

            When they are together, it is not only just to bed one another. They continue as they had before. They talk, they tell stories, they discuss what they are reading. Ezra will bring out his violin and play, the new strings giving out a sound far more vibrant and full than the old ones. He has not yet broke a one. Sometimes it is as though nothing more happened between them, at least until one of them takes off their clothes.

            There is an unspoken agreement. If they fuck, they can sleep together that night. Sometimes James will arrive at Ezra’s, and find him exhausted from a day’s work. He will stay a few moments for a chat, but then he will return home, alone. He does not want to admit to himself that there could be a reason to stay the night without benefit of orgasm. As it stands, Ezra has not asked that he stay otherwise, or has attempted to do so himself. If Ezra is fine with the arrangement, then so is James, not to mention relieved.

            Good to not make any more of this than it is.

            Though this is unabashedly fantastic. Good Christ, is it ever. James has never had anyone like Ezra before. The few lays of his youth, they were perfunctory things, rarely initiated by himself. He participated because he thought he ought to, because it was a thing expected of a man. Not until the Hamiltons was sex a thing he enjoyed instead of being a passive participant. They had shown him pleasure, and expected him to take the lead, which he found he was rather adept at. With them, though, there was always an undercurrent of tenderness. They had all loved one another.

            Ezra, though, is far sharper around the edges. The first time together, it had been largely what James had expected and hoped for. But Ezra’s hands were rough, and he sank his nails into James’ shoulders as he finished. Ezra was the first man James had who had lived a life difficult as he. Pain did not frighten him. Point of fact, he rather seemed to enjoy it on occasion. He is unafraid of using tooth and claw and strength, so that sometimes it seems less a fuck and more of a fight.

            James loves that. Unabashedly. Everyone else he has ever been with, he has held back pieces of himself for fear of hurting the other. It has always been in him, he supposes, this darkness. A man does not change completely. With Miranda and Thomas, there was always a part of him demanding he be on his best behaviour. He had been so stunned by the existence of their love that he had not dared toy with it.

            With Ezra, there is no such compulsion to restrain himself. Ezra knows who and what he is, and expects honesty from him, especially in his actions. James can fuck him raw, pull on his hair, kissed him so hard once that he bloodied his own lip, and Ezra meets him at every turn.

            Which is not to say there are no rules. One night, James had Ezra’s legs over his shoulders, and pushed one back too far. Ezra put a hand to his chest and said flatly, “Stop.” James did, without question, and Ezra pushed him off. He rolled onto his side, quiet a moment. Finally, James asked if he should go, and Ezra reached back for him, saying, “No. No, just—gentle me, James.” James did as he was asked. In the past three months, Ezra has asked him to stop four times, and James always complies.

            He tried it himself once, just to see what would happen. Within seconds, Ezra was sitting back between his knees, hands up. “ What have I done?”

            “Nothing. Just curious as to the outcome.” At that, Ezra scowled, then slapped James’ cock before climbing off the bed. James yelped, “What was that for?”

            He watched, incredulous, as Ezra pulled on his breeches, cursing at him in quick flowing Hebrew, then went out the front door with shirt, waistcoat, and shoes in hand.

            The next night, Ezra showed up with crossed arms, but looking slightly sheepish. “Well?” James said, not moving to let him in.

            Ezra looked from side to side, then up at James, his jaw set. “To be perfectly honest, James, sometimes we do things that remind me of what happened to me in the brig. When that happens, I tell you to stop. I don’t need for you to make a mockery of that.”

            With a sigh, James leaned against the doorway. “You did not say anything before. How was I to know?”

            “You weren’t, and I know it. I’ve naught to be ashamed for—what happened to me was not my fault—but that does not mean I welcome the memories either. They make me irritable. I apologize for last night. Hopefully I caused you no permanent injury.”

            “Somehow I think I shall recover.”

            Looking up at James from under his brows, Ezra asked, “Must I work my way back into your good graces?”

            James stepped aside. “You never left.”

            They have worked out what the other likes, will tolerate, will welcome, and reached a level of comfort in their relationship that still allows for surprise. As it stands, James would say that there could be little else that would satisfy him about their arrangement.

            He never expected happiness in this place. He did not expect to find anything at all. Instead, he has found Ezra Wake.

 

Out of the blue, Ezra says, “I’m thinking of circumcising myself,” and James barks, “The hell you will.”

            Ezra raises a brow, setting his violin down in his lap. “I beg your pardon?”

            They are in their traditional places, Ezra in the chair set against the wall, James facing him. Ezra has spent the last twenty minutes playing a long, winding piece James was unfamiliar with. He doubts it was composed by pirates. Now—this.

            “You can’t be serious,” James says.

            Ezra gives a shrug. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

            James says, “No.”

            The brow that is already raised arches even further, and Ezra says flatly, “Just because my cock’s been in your mouth doesn’t mean you dictate what I do with it.”

            His cheeks flush, and he hopes like hell that Ezra does not comment upon it. Yes, they talk freely about sex, but some things—particularly when James has done them—well. Clearing his throat, James counters, “That’s not what I meant.”

            “What did you mean?”

            He means, _what the fuck are you thinking_ , but apparently that is not the appropriate response. “Why would you want to do a thing like that for?”

            “It’s a custom of my people. I’ve always rather regretted that my parents did not do it, particularly given because it was from a place of fear. The religion bit holds little interest for me—spiritually at least, intellectually it is fascinating—but culturally…well, I’m so removed from everyone out here. It would be a nice reminder, I suppose.”

            Incredulous, James states, “Mutilating your cock would be a nice reminder?”

            That fucking eyebrow. “Mutilating?” Ezra says frostily. “Sir, it is a custom of my ancestors stretching back millennia. Might I remind you that my people were contemplating the mysteries of the universe while yours were still worshipping rocks.”

            “Rocks?”

            “Isn’t that what you Scotsmen worshipped?”

            With a snort, James challenges, “I dare you to say that to Fraser.”

            “I have. He hit me across the back of my head with his hat.” Ezra flicks his bow up into the air, studying the strings. “It’s my body, and I’ll do what I please with it.”

            James does not understand. At all. “Why _now_?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. I think about it every few years. Henry was absolutely against it, so I caved to his pressure—“ Ezra points the bow at James before he can speak. “But he had the good grace to marry me, so like a good wife, I obeyed. No one else has that claim over me.” He settles back. “Bad enough that I have to hide who I am from my neighbours, my friends…I don’t care to hide who I am even to the point of hiding from myself.”

            James is desperate to get Ezra away from the topic of cutting a piece off his prick, so he asks, “Do you ever think what they’d do? If they found out?”

            Letting out a sharp laugh, Ezra replies, “Which _part_? The fact that I was a pirate? Oh, no one would be too fussed. They’d be taken aback, surely, but given what I know about them, I dare them to throw stones. That I killed those officers and Oliver Smithe? I think Alastair’s heart would be broken, but the rest, they’d be fine. If they found out I was a Jew, they’d never trust me again. Christ, Esther can probably remember a time when I wouldn’t have legally been allowed in England.” Ezra thinks, then shakes his head. “You know, perhaps I am being too harsh. They might come around. I have enough of them in a corner, whether they realize it or not. Then again, they could just call me a dissembling, sneaky Christ killer for putting them in that position, despite the fact that they put themselves in those positions and I just offered them a way out.”

            “Like wh—“

            “Their secrets are theirs, James. Don’t insult either of our intelligence.” Ezra leans back into his chair, fingers stroking over where he’s carefully sewed another patch. “The rest—that they’d never forgive. No matter how many of their children I’ve saved from death, no matter how many diseases I’ve nursed them through, they’d hang me within the day if they knew how I sought my pleasure.”

            “And me?”

            “Well, at least you also have an interest in women. Maybe they’d think you could be saved.”

            “No saving _you_ ,” James agrees.

            Ezra shakes his head with a crooked grin. “No. I like what I like. I am unrepentant. And if the day came—well, I suppose that’s the end of my story time, isn’t it. But it’s a large world in which we live.” He sets his violin and bow on the tableside. “What is it that really bugs you about the circumcision bit?” James lets out an aggrieved sigh. “Oh, please, James. We both of us know your prick sees more attention than mine, and despite my teasing, twice over the span of three months does not a pattern make. It’s not like any surgery would put a pause on our relations. Why are you so opposed?”

            James considers saying what he really thinks—which is that cutting one’s own cock is barbaric and insane—but he knows that would not be well received. His second option would be more welcome, but it would cost him perhaps a little, not being one given to compliments.

            He decides on the latter.

            “I simply don’t understand why you’re so bent on toying with perfection,” James says, keeping a straight face.

            A few moments pass, then Ezra has to bite into his smile. He glances away, then pushes himself up. When he climbs onto James’ lap, straddling him, James’ hands cupping his ass, James knows he has made a good choice.

            “God damn you, old man,” Ezra murmurs, laughter threatening his voice, before he kisses James so deeply that to surface for air would be a sin.


	25. The Quiet

_August 8, 1721_

_Up early. The usual chores. Marcus was in fine spirits, so went riding before giving my attention to the garden. By my estimate, half of what I planted shall be edible. I am told by multiple sources that this is a good yield for one so new to the practice._

_Mrs. Fraser has agreed to perform the task of preserving my vegetables in return for a small curio chest that she might present her husband on the occasion of his birthday. Now that I have completed the cabinet, I shall turn my attentions to this new project._

_The cabinet is at last finished. I found that it was difficult to declare it complete, but one of my most notorious faults has been an inability to know when it is appropriate to stop. I do think if I worked at it anymore, I would be at the possibility of ruining it._

_It is the first of my large projects to reach completion. I must confess, it is a skill I was not aware I possessed until I began. I knew I had the rudimentary ability to construct things, having never lost the knowledge imparted to me by my father and uncle, though I ran so very far from their craft. A lifetime spent aboard vessels of wood also contributed to my education, though I was unaware. I remember the men who would carve for the pastime of it at sea, and encountering the master craftsmen who made the mastheads that adorned our ships. I appreciated their work, but did not realize I had picked up by sight some of their trade._

_I have come far from the first halting carvings I made during the winter to pass my time. I think the adornments for the cabinet are recognizable likenesses._

_I still have not decided what to do with the cabinet. I think that I might put it away for now, until I settle on a course. Tomorrow I will begin to draw out the design for Fraser’s chest. I have some ideas already._

_I wonder if this shall be my life from now on. If I am to spend my days here, making things for others. Will that be my living? A year ago the idea would have horrified me. I admit that now my only reaction to the prospect is mild amazement._

_That I should live so long to see these days._

_I had no intention of dying soft. Had someone suggested it to me, I would have considered it an insult, and been likely to split his head open. I think in my arrogance I meant to die in a blaze of glory. It is a young man’s ambition that I unfortunately picked up in my middle age. It did not occur to me that I could live for something._

_Perhaps not even live for something. This idea of myself, that I was for something, it is a conceit. James McGraw, who thought himself so important. _

_Only I am not important. To realize that would have shamed me in the past, but now I find myself at ease with the notion. A touch embarrassed as well. To look back at myself and see how great I thought myself. Every day I am more myself again. By that I mean McGraw. Flint is receding from me, and I am glad for it. I remember telling Miranda how glad I would be to rid myself of the man, and how quick I was to take him on again at her loss. Now that I have been free from the expectation of him for some time, I see that it was true. I told her the truth._

_I am not so complacent as to believe that all will be well. That he may not return. That is the problem with Flint. He comes back so easily when I call. I do not think he shall ever be entirely gone, but I can hope that he holds to the side of the boat instead of climbing in._

_Perhaps I will just live. Open ended, with no exact purpose. That is how the majority of mankind exists, after all. I am not too good for it._

James follows the usual path through the woods. It is not marked, but he knows the way well.

            It is a warm evening, but what the others consider unbearable he considers a matter of course. Years spent along the equator will do that to a man. The last few days have been horribly humid, he will admit, but the evening has cooled, and there is a light breeze rustling through the leaves. He walks through the sugar maples, over fallen branches, through the grass. A few birds chitter overhead, and it is as peaceful a place as exists in the world.

            He carries a book with him. Never any telling when Ezra might arrive home. He usually comes home a little after six, but if there is some emergency, he may not make it back until the light is nearly gone.

            When he emerges from the clearing, he can tell that Ezra has not yet arrived. The shutters are all closed. As he nears the house, he hears Black Shuck whimpering at the back door.

            James sets his book down on the step, then finds the key for the lock where Ezra hides it behind some flowers. Unfastening the padlock, he pushes open the door. Black Shuck bounds out, happy to see him as always. James gives him a pat on the head. “Good man.” Giving him a light whack on the back, he orders, “Off with you.”

            The dog races off into the trees, needing no more instruction.

            James glances into the dark insides of the house, where it is cool. Blowing out a breath, he pulls the door over, then walks to the stable.

            Kelpie is doing little, as is her custom. James strokes her neck, and has a look around. Well, he is here already.

            So he takes her out, knowing she will not stray far. Stripping out of his waistcoat and shirt, he goes about mucking out the stall. He likes to be of use. It is only the work of a few minutes, and he knows it will be appreciated. After, he puts down fresh hay, refills the feed, and checks on the water.

            Once done, he goes outside to see how the animals are faring. The dog is doing circles around the horse, who seems only barely interested in the proceedings. With a shake of the head, James cleans up from a bucket of water by the door, then pulls his shirt back on. He does not bother with the waistcoat, laying it over his shoulder as he returns to the house.

            He puts the waistcoat inside, then comes to sit on the back steps. Picking up his book—Pope’s first volume of _The Iliad_ —he leans back against the door frame and settles in.

            A moment later, Black Shuck climbs up onto the step, then puts his body across James’ lap. Lifting his book, James says, “You know, you’re not of a size to do that.” The dog pays him no mind, and so James merely rests his book against the dog’s fur, and finds his place.

 

He dreams that it is the dead of night.

            The _Walrus_ burns.

            He turns about, looking for anyone else. No. It is only he.

            He strides backwards as the main mast begins to fall. It crashes through the sails and rigging, and he feels the ship shudder underneath him. Shaking his head, he turns to escape.

            He comes up against a faceless woman. She is clothed head to toe in black. She is death.

            There is no escape.

           

James startles awake, and the dog in his lap raises his head. For a moment, James lets the beat of his heart run wild.

            It has been some years since he dreamed of the woman in black.

            He drops back against the wall, threading his fingers through the dog’s fur. Just a dream.

            Where is Ezra? By the sun, James gauges that it is coming up on eight. Someone must be ill. Either that or he was asked to dinner and decided to say yes.

            Kelpie has chosen to lay down. “You’re not dead, are you?” James calls. He sees the steady rise and fall of her side. Still a strange thing, to see a horse laying down.

            With a sigh, James picks up his book from where it has fallen in the dirt. Frowning, he brushes some moist brown flecks from the pages. The paper has stained. His own fault for drifting off. It is the weather. The temperature is perfect for him, and too warm for everyone else. He sleeps because he is comfortable, they sleep because they are not.

            He continues reading, petting the dog’s head as he goes. Eventually, he starts to read aloud.

            He is saying, “Let men their days in senseless strife employ/We, in eternal peace and constant joy,” when both he and Black Shuck raise their heads at the sound of footsteps.

            Ezra rounds the corner, a little smile on his face. “Reading to my dog,” he says quietly, pulling his satchel over his head. “I often marvel at how deeply we have domesticated you.”

            “To hell with you,” James replies, but watching Ezra. He can tell by looking at him that something has gone wrong. His eyes are tired, and he moves slowly.

            Ezra sits down on the steps, reaching over to scratch Black Shuck’s back. “Too comfortable for hellos, are we?”

            James can smell the alcohol on him. “You were at the tavern?”

            Nodding, Ezra pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his head upon them. He watches the dog as he speaks. “A few of us went.”   

            “Who died?”

            “The Ryders’ infant.”

            James pauses. “Ah.”

            Ezra sits a moment, lost in thought. He shifts, and then sits back up. “It is a long time since I helped usher a person into this world only to see them out again. Twenty years, actually. First child I ever delivered, died a month later of fever. Here—I have delivered five live children. The sixth was still born. Four of those children seem to be of fine health, as far as I can discern. The fifth died last night in his sleep, as sometimes happens. Naught to be done about it, or to prevent it.”

            “You’ve no idea why they sometimes do that?” James asks in curiosity. “Just go for no reason?”

            With a shrug, Ezra says, “People have plenty of ideas, but I do not prescribe to any one theory. I have to know a thing, to see evidence of it, before I will believe it. For now, it is simply one of those things that just…happens.” He pushes his hair back, then sits up, splaying his legs. He blows out a breath, then tilts his head, studying Kelpie. “What on earth is she doing?”

            “Sleeping, I think.”

            “Lazy thing,” Ezra mutters, pushing himself up. He walks over to the horse, clapping his hands. He gets her up, then ushers her back into the stable.

            James wonders what it is like, to be in Ezra’s position. To see a person when they first arrive in the world, and to be there once they have departed. It is a unique thing. James is familiar with death, far more than most, but birth—he finds even the idea of it distasteful. There is something so…diametric to everything he has been.

            Ezra wanders back a moment later, saying, “You did the stall.”

            “You know me. Not good to sit for too long.”

            Ezra walks up the steps and droops against the doorway. “I didn’t keep you too long, did I?”

            James lifts his book. “I had Mr. Pope and Homer to keep me company.” He nods back to the woods. “Suppose I should leave you be—“

            “No.” The response is flat, and naked. Ezra gestures inside. “Will you come in a while, at least? I admit, I will not be the best of company. If you’d—even come in to read a little while?” James pauses, and Ezra drops his head. Nodding, he steps further inside. “Sorry, James, I’m a little drunk at the moment—“

            James pushes himself up, saying, “I’ve nowhere to be.”

            “Ever magnanimous.”

            James follows him in, the dog pushing him aside to get close to Ezra. James closes the door, hearing Ezra sigh in the dark.

            “Upstairs?” he suggests. After a moment, he has to clarify. They usually go upstairs to be naked. “Don’t have to bother about the shutters.”

            Ezra says softly, “All right.”

 

It is a strange thing, and one they have not done before.

            They sit side by side on the bed, under the north facing window. The shutters are never closed on that window, for the only way for anyone to see in would be to use a ladder. Ezra has a candle on the sill, for the sun has passed below the horizon.

            James finished his book fairly quickly, and went back to the start. Ezra is focused on some Hebrew text that has been written by hand, what actually looks like his own hand, and it still distracts James when he turns the pages from right to left.

            It is out of the ordinary for them to be so quiet with one another. James is a bit uncomfortable. He is fine with silence, he spends much of his days in it, but to be with another person and for nothing to be said—it implies something. A lack of words sometimes speak as loudly as the words themselves.

            _He is drunk and upset about the infant. Stop thinking so deeply about a thing that does not mean much._

            After a while, James puts his book down. Ezra looks up in surprise, and James sees the little furrow between his brows that he quickly smoothes out. “Are you off?”

            Ezra wants him to stay. That much is clear. “It’s quiet,” James replies.

            “I told you I’d not be the best of company. It’s all right, you don’t have to indulge me—“

            “What are you reading?” James asks, closing his book.

            “Part of the Pirkei Avot. I’ve told you about it.”

            “What does it say?”

            “It’s about ethics—“

            James nudges him with his shoulder. “No, what it actually says.”

            With a slight frown, Ezra moves his finger up the page, and runs under the line, saying, “Let your friend’s dignity be more dear—“

            “No, what it _actually_ says.”

            Perplexed a moment, Ezra asks, “You—want to hear it in Hebrew?”

            “Mm.”

            Ezra hesitates, but he resettles the book against his knees. He begins to speak in the language that means nothing to James, except that it is entirely Ezra’s. Plenty of v’s and l’s and soft ‘sh’ sounds, hard vowels and sounds coming from the back of the throat. It is unlike anything James has heard anywhere else, and Ezra becomes so relaxed and focused when he speaks in his ancestor’s tongue.

            James leans back against the headboard, his head touching the wall. He is lulled by the sound of Ezra’s voice. When Ezra presses against him without missing a syllable, James automatically lifts his arm. Situating himself against James’ chest, Ezra nuzzles against him, and continues to read aloud.

            Rhythmically, James strokes Ezra’s dark locks. He puts a pillow on his lap so Ezra can rest the book on it. That done, Ezra wraps an arm around James’ waist, and they settle together.

            The time drifts by, the room filled with Ezra’s soft-spoken, unknowable words. James is the first to sleep, his cheek resting atop Ezra’s head.

            They sleep together through the night.


	26. The Question

_August 9, 1721_

_I only just came through the door. The sun is barely up._

_I am unsure what it is I am doing. There is this sense of unease._

_I do not know that I can trust this._

_I am making little sense now. I left while he slept. Pulled away from him and walked home, leaving his door unlocked. I did not like to do that, much as I am averse to leaving my own abode unguarded, but I could not stay._

_There is not a thing in my life, my entire life, that has stayed good throughout. I do not think I have the ability to trust. I do not think I can let this go farther._

_No matter what, this is destined to come to ill._

 

The day is a strange kind of heat. The summer, for James at least, was mild, not like the smothering blanket of the West Indies when the sun was at its peak. No, he found the weather rather pleasant. This is different, though. As the days darken, the heat takes on a different dimension. There were thunderstorms last week, and James thought maybe this vaguely ominous sensation would lessen. It has not. He wonders if this is merely how summers end here—unwilling to loosen its hold kindly.

            He walks into town in the mid-afternoon, in a peculiar mood. On edge, and not able or willing to address the source. It is a quiet day. Everything green, but the air is too still.

            _Is that it_? he wonders. The absence of breeze. The captain in him is not so easily shed. No wind means ill tidings. No sailor ever wants for the wind to leave the sails.

            He wears no hat or wig. He never does here. This is his home too, and formality is not expected amongst familiars. Thank God. The sun bears down on him, and he casts a doubtful eye on the cloudless sky.

            No one greets him as he enters town, for no one is out of doors. James frowns. He walks past the apothecary shop without a second look.

            When he arrives on the magistrate’s step, he at last hears a voice. Turning, he watches as young Rebecca Smithe stomps around the outside of the center, murmuring to herself as children will do.

            James taps on the door, waiting for a hollered, “Present!” before opening the door. Fraser looks up from his papers, then leans back with relief. “James, lad. No, leave the door open. Air’s awful still, isn’t it.”

            “I was just thinking the same,” James admits, sitting before the desk.

            “Queer weather. Like autumn threatening to come in early, making everything seem darker in the day.” Fraser runs a hand over his yellow-white curls, glancing towards the outdoors before giving James a smile. “Is there a reason for this visit?”

            “Restlessness, I suppose,” James says, a touch sheepish.

            “Don’t blame you. The few who farm, they’ve plenty to do as the summer goes on. The rest of us, just another bloody day. I’ll be cheered for Saturday. You’ll be joining us, then.” James grimaces, and Fraser chuckles. “No being clear of it, even solitary as you are. Can’t miss out on Smithe Day.”

            “The last living Smithe is a five year old child. Female. The name will die with her.”

            “God bless for that. I don’t ken that I could sleep at night knowing the line would make another generation. It’s better than celebrating the day they settled The Edge. February. Damned fools. Suppose they couldn’t help themselves, running from the warrants out for them. Then acting all high and mighty. Where did I start? Oh, yes. Smithe Day! Anniversary of the first child born in Dudley. It’s a noble thing to commemorate. And everyone has to be there. I’ll come pull you from your comfortable perch if I don’t see you make an appearance by four, and that’s a promise.”

            “Can a man not be left alone?”

            “Oh, for heaven’s sake, James. It won’t hurt you to show your face for an afternoon. Your reputation as a curmudgeon won’t disappear if you join in once a season.”

            “Curmudgeon. I rather like the sound of that. Perhaps that can be my profession.”

            “To be a man of leisure,” Fraser mutters. “Alas, it was not meant to be my lot.”

            Tilting his head, James asks, “Tell me something, Alastair. There’s fifty of us. How busy could you possibly be?”

            “I take umbrage.” James raises his hands, and Fraser waves him off. “It isn’t the excitement of the city, I’ll grant you. Nor of even a town. But when everyone knows you, knows your face, knows you can be trusted—well, then. You’re not only the magistrate. You’re a man they expect to solve things. Down to the smallest dispute. Christ forbid they think for themselves, use the sense God gave them.”

            “Do you think you captain a ship of fools?”

            “Nae. No, that’s being a bit harsh, and I know it. Truth of it is, it’s good to matter. A man ought to matter to someone. I’d be content with just Lizzy, but four dozen other souls looking to me—that’s a feather in my cap.” Fraser nods, a bit of a smile on his face. He pats the papers before him. “Aye.” He looks up at James and falters. “Oh, I didn’t mean there’s anything wrong with solitude—“

            James grins. “Of course you didn’t.”

            Fraser folds his arms on the desk. “Tell me honest, James—you never wish you had a wife out there with you? Someone to wile the hours with?”

            With a shake of the head, James answers quietly, “No. Besides, I think the time for that has passed, don’t you?”

            “Oh, you’re still young yet,” Fraser says, and James has to laugh at that. “My mother, God rest her, was the second of my father’s wives, and when she passed over, the old goat married again, and he was my age by then. Had four more children before joining his first two wives, and I’m sure they were pleased by that. It’s not over until it’s over.”

            “I’m fine as I am.”

            Fraser grumbles. “You and Wake. The pair of you.”

            The hairs on his neck raise. Keeping his demeanour calm, James asks, “What about Wake?”

            “Oh, the two of you. Plenty to offer, you’d make good husbands for your wives, but you’re so bloody set in your ways out in the woods that there’s no shaking you. You don’t want to die alone, do you?”

            Settling, James says, “The notion does not bother me.”

            Fraser rolls his eyes, as if James is a lost cause. He is, of course. James could have told him that. “To be honest, it’s more Ezra that concerns me. You’re hopeless, I think, though you may surprise us yet. Ezra, though. I worry for him.”

            “Why?”

            “Come now, James. You’ve spent enough time with the man. You’ve seen what he was like about those dogs of his. Practically his children. Truth be told, between you and I, I think they were gifts from his wife, and that’s why he clung so dearly to his things. I wondered what would happen when they died. He put on a good show, Ezra did, but I’ve known the man long enough. Devastated through and through when the one popped off. I can’t imagine he’ll be much better when the other goes. A man like that—he needs companionship. He does, even if he’s loath to admit it. A man who loved his wife so much that he weeps for the loss of her dogs—Ezra’s considerably more tender hearted than he lets on.”

            James wants to argue. He wants to think of the man who chopped the limbs off a soldier, then kept him alive to torture information from him. But in that moment, he can only picture a dark eyed man gathering up two monstrous puppies into his arms, under the loving eye of a man more black than black.

            He shifts uncomfortably, and Fraser snorts. “Foolish of me to talk of men’s hearts with you, of all people.”

            James smiles tightly, but the words sting. They should not.

            There is a knock at the door, and of course who steps in but Ezra. “Gentlemen,” he says.

            “Wake,” Fraser says, “your ears must be burning. We were just talking about you.”

            _God damn him_. “Good heavens,” Ezra says, “whatever about? Not exactly much to tell.”

            James pushes himself up. “You’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have to see Mr. Walters about a matter, and I think I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Fraser.”

            “I’ll see you on Smithe Day,” Fraser says after him.

            James keeps a wide berth of Ezra, seeing the shift of his body as Ezra realizes how he is being avoided.

            Over his shoulder, he hears Fraser say quietly, “What’s the matter with him?”

            Ezra murmurs, “I’m sure I don’t know.”

 

Sometime later, he emerges from Walters’ work shop, smell of sawdust in his nostrils. The scent takes him back to his childhood, and while he would not characterize his youth as being particularly at ease, something about it calms him. It used to be that only the smell of salt reminded him of hard work, callouses, and sweat upon brows. Now wood does the same.

            If possible, the day seems heavier. The sky is cloudless, but the air still will not move. He tugs at his sleeves, uncomfortable.

            A little voice murmurs from around the corner. Following it, James glances around the side of the stable.

            Rebecca Smithe looks up, braiding short blades of grass together. Her face is guileless, trusting, as she says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Moore.”

            He smiles crookedly. “Aren’t you supposed to wait for me to say hello first?”

            “I worried that you would leave if I said nothing.”

            “Why would I do that?”

            “You don’t like people, sir.”

            He barks, glad as always for some honesty. He lets himself down beside her, leaning back against the wall. “I like you just fine. Are you not a person?”

            “I’m a child.”

            “Is a child not a person?”

            “Mrs. O’Donnell says no, but Mr. Wake says yes.”

            “And who do you believe?”

            She screws up her face. “Mr. Wake. But we shan’t tell Mrs. O’Donnell.”

            “No, we shall not.” James hooks his wrists over his knees. It is good to be in the shade on this strange day. “Why are you by yourself?”

            The moment he says it, he knows exactly what the child will say. “You’re often by yourself.”

            “I am, but I’m a mean old man, and you’re a young lady. Does your mother know where you are? You know she worries when you’ve gone.”

            With a frown, Rebecca replies, “I’m not supposed to be near the house when she and Mr. Robert want to be alone together.”

            James raises his brows. He had suspected, yes, how could he not, but not even Ezra was certain if Milly and Robert were sleeping together. “Ah.”

            Stricken, Rebecca says, “Oh! Oh, I’m not supposed to say it like that.”

            “How are you supposed to say it?”

            “That I only felt like playing. But you asked about my mother, sir, and so I forgot.”

            Leaning slightly towards her, James says, “Not a word from me.”

            Rebecca smiles at him, relaxing. James finds himself smiling back. He inhales the heavy air, looking forward to autumn.

            “Are you a pirate?”

            Startled, James cannot reply for a moment. “What makes you say that?” he asks, his voice entirely calm.

            The child merely gazes on him with clear blue eyes, unaware of what a dangerous question she asks. “I know you are a sailor, but Mrs. O’Donnell said you were a pirate.”

            “Did she.”

            Rebecca nods. “I heard people talking after you and Mr. Wake had come for dinner once. You and Mr. Robert had gone to the stables, and I was supposed to be sleeping. Mrs. O’Donnell….” The girl stalls, biting her lip.

            “It’s all right. I know she doesn’t much care for me.”

            The girl bends to the side, lowering her voice to a hush. “She called you a pirate, and she cursed before it.”

            Dropping his voice as well, James asks, “Did she call me a bloody pirate?”

            “Shh,” Rebecca hisses urgently, putting a finger to her lips. But she nods.

            “Did she say anything else?”

            “No. Mr. Wake told her to be quiet. He laughed at her.”

            Nodding, James thinks about it. He brushes at his bottom lip with his thumb, wondering if the word has gone any further through the town. If people suspect, and Ezra’s kept it from him.

            _Don’t be paranoid. Tess already knew about Flint_.

            He realizes Rebecca is still watching him. “And you want to know if it’s true. If I’m a pirate.” The girl nods solemnly. James has not been asked that question in a long time.

            He realizes that it pulls at him. Of course he will say no, because it is the only sane answer to give a child. But what does it mean to him? Is it a lie? He has never been comfortable with a lie when it really mattered, though admittedly he has barely cared when it suited his purposes. What manner of question is this? What does he mean when he replies?

            “No,” James says, and it is the truth. “I am not a pirate.” He inhales through his nose, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. Perhaps he does not know who he is now, but he knows what he is not. “I’m not a pirate.” He meets Rebecca’s phrase. “Pirate—that’s just a word people use sometimes for someone they don’t like.”

            “Is it?”

            “Mm. It could mean that the other person doesn’t like what someone’s doing because they don’t follow the rules. A pirate’s someone who doesn’t follow rules. Or maybe they just don’t like them, so they figure they’ll call them a name. Pirate’s just another name.”

            “But it’s a bad name?”

            “I don’t think so. But not everyone thinks the same thing. A pirate… a real pirate, can be a lot of different things.”

            “Did you meet pirates? When you were on the sea?”

            “I did. But those aren’t stories for little girls.”

            “I wish I wasn’t,” she says with furrowed brow. “I wish I was allowed to hear all the stories.”

            “Maybe someday.”

            Chewing on her lip, Rebecca asks, “Are pirates bad men? My mother and Mrs. O’Donnell say they are, but you’ve met them.”

            James sighs. “I think that’s a difficult question. And I think you should listen to your mother.”

            Rebecca says offhandedly, “My father was a bad man.”

            With a nod, James says, “I’ve heard that.” He watches the girl plait another blade into her creation. “Do you remember him much?”

            “Not really. I remember when he hurt Mother’s face. And I remember when he was sick. A little. Mrs. O’Donnell says it’s better that I don’t remember him. What about your father?”

            “My father?” James says, surprised. “Well—he passed away when I was a few years older than you.”

            “Was he a sailor too?”

            “No. No, he was a carpenter.”

            “Jesus was a carpenter.”

            “He was.” James rubs a hand over his head, then says, “Miss Smithe—I have a piece of advice for you that I hope you will take to heart. Don’t tell everyone everything you hear.”

            “Why not?”

            _It’s not safe_. “Do you know who the most important person is in this village?”

            She takes him off his guard by replying, “Mr. Wake.”

            “Yes. That’s right. Why didn’t you say Mr. Fraser, though?”

            “Mr. Fraser is…you said the most _important_ , yes?”

            “I did. All right. Why is Mr. Wake the most important person?”

            “Because he knows everything.”

            “That’s right. Do you know how he got that way?” Rebecca shakes her head, and James says, “Because he doesn’t tell everyone everything that he knows. He keeps things to himself. He watches. That’s how he knows. That’s how you get to be important. You keep very quiet, and you learn everything you can.” James smiles crookedly. “Maybe be more careful about asking people if they’re pirates.”

            “Is it not a lie? To not say what you know?”

            “I don’t think so. I tell you what. Try it for a week. Keep what you know to yourself. See if you don’t learn more that way. See if you like it.”

            The child thinks, then nods. “I shall, Mr. Moore.”

            “Good. I shall leave you to your task, then.”

            James pushes himself up, and as he walks away, he hears Rebecca whisper, “I shall be very, very quiet.”

 

“I am not a pirate,” James says to the empty house.

            It sounds strange and stark. Almost immediately he hears a voice asking, _then what are you_?

            _The hell if I know_ , he thinks, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

            He goes to get his journal. Sitting at the table, he opens it to the abrupt entry he wrote this morning. James runs his fingers over the ink, feeling the panic that went into the words. He would never admit to it—‘unease’ is as much as he would allow himself—but panic, yes.

            Good things do not last. It is not their nature. Besides, what else could he possibly have with Ezra? This is not a world for them. Not for men of their make. There is no place for them. Has there ever been?

            _You make a place. They do not dictate where you fit. Nor he._

            Christ. He has been down this road before, and hundreds, if not thousands, lost their lives. All because of his….

            _What? Go on. Say it_.

            He hisses, pushing the journal away and sitting back. He folds his hands in his lap, scowling.

            “What would you do?” he finally asks. He asks Thomas, “What would you do?”

            Saying it aloud deflates him. He has rarely allowed himself to think the question, but he has never, not in a decade and a half, ever said it.

            He has never done it, because he knows the answer. What Thomas would do is just about the opposite to his instinct and decisions. Had their places been reversed, Thomas would have been too stubborn to ever leave England. He would have stayed. He would have found a way. It is still the single greatest regret, greatest incredulity of James’ life. That he left, because Miranda said so, said Thomas wanted it to happen. He should have stayed. God damn it, he should have _stayed_.

            Thomas would have stayed. He would not have given up.

            _He would have been too stupid to give up_.

            James lets out a sick little laugh. He does not want to think it. There is that part of him that wants to remember Thomas as perfect, as unassailable, but he had his faults, just like any other man. To this day, James has some difficulty separating bravery and naiveté when it comes to Thomas. He was a good man—the best of men—but yes, he had been…blind when it came to some things.

            Still, though, James does not doubt that his decisions would have been the better ones. He can quote Marcus Aurelius to himself until he is blue in the face, but that is because he can pick up a book, a tangible thing, and consult it. He does not have the thing he really wants. He wants Thomas’ advice, his opinion. He wants Thomas to tell him what the right thing is, to steer him back on course.

            James sets his hand on the blank part of the page, feeling old and sad. He lets himself accept what he is about to do. He does not run from it, as he has so often in the past.

            _What would you do about Ezra?_

_Be more specific._

James closes his eyes. _Should I let myself fall any deeper than I already have_?

            _It is not a matter of letting yourself. You will, or already have. The question is whether you act upon it. Why would you not?_

_Because I will lose him. I have seen what happens when I lose people. I don’t know that I want to inflict that kind of destruction on the world again._

_Who says you will lose him?_

_Don’t be so_ naïve _._

_In ways, you have shaped the world. Why not carve out a small space for yourself and him? Did he not do it for himself before?_

_Yes he did, and he lost his man to a bloody gibbet._

_He had ten good years before that, though. You do him a disservice, thinking this is only up to you. What of him? What about what he wants?_

James bites into his lower lip, hating himself, and admits, _My feelings surpass his in intensity._

_You’re certain of this?_

_Yes._

_Have you asked?_

_Of course not._

_Then you don’t know._

_I can’t just ask._

_You could._

_No. I really couldn’t._

_You care for him deeply, and you’re afraid he does not return your ardour. Is that it_?

            “For fuck’s sake,” James mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. His skin is hot to the touch. He does not want to do this.

            _There are many different considerations._

_Yes, there are—but you are being obstinate about something that does not require it. Did you not make the first advance upon him? You cannot be afraid to initiate things. He is forward in some ways, but not in others. You have seen this in him._

_He isn’t over Henry._

_Nor are you over me. But still, here you find yourself._

_Is it a betrayal of those we lost to…move on?_

_Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. Love, true love, is unselfish. The people who love you would want you to be happy when they’ve gone. Of course they would._

_My love is not unselfish._

_I know. Nor, do I think, is his. You are a well matched pair. You only have to be a man, and live without shame. Is that not all I have asked of you? Can you do that for me? Everything else, I can forgive. You know I could forgive. But you know I would not want to see you unhappy._

James looks around the house, and he sighs. God. That was as awful as he anticipated.

            And not, at the same time.


	27. Deeds and Words

It is very early in the morning when he arrives on Ezra’s doorstep.

            He does not knock, nor does he even approach the door itself. He comes to a halt before the house, letting out a grateful breath. His back aches. Slowly, he crouches down, until the cabinet he had tied to his back sits upon the ground.

            Loosening the knots, James groans with relief. He has to put a hand to the earth, then push himself up. Every day comes another reminder that he is not quite so young as he once was, and it is not a situation that shall ever be remedied.

            Hand to the small of his back, he takes one last look at his work. Not terrible for his first time.

            Ezra has seen the small white pine cabinet before, but not the embellishments James has made to the top. Two hounds, fair likenesses of Cu Sith and Black Shuck, have been carved in relief. Perhaps they are not perfect likenesses, but Ezra will know.

            He will understand.

            James brushes his hand over the top, preparing himself to fully commit to this minor act of bravery. Then he loops the ropes over his hand, and turns to walk home through the woods.

 

The woman in black has returned to his dreams.

            James follows at a distance, glancing about the grey landscape. He does not know where he is. The air smells like salt. They must be near the ocean, but he cannot see it, cannot hear it.

            She does not seem to notice him. He follows, regardless, unsure of their destination.

            They walk through low hills, through dying grass, under a bleak sky. He hears the wind, but he cannot feel it. Each footfall is silent. He never looks back, only forward. She is taking him somewhere. She must be. Otherwise, why would he follow?

            A hand falls on his shoulder.

            He turns and looks up at a man with no hair, who is blacker than black, the whites of his eyes shining out. His mouth falls open, and the sea cascades from it.

           

James sits up with a start.

            No good. No good at all.

            Twice in two days that he has dreamed of the woman in black. She has not haunted his dreams since after Miranda’s death. Her return is in no way welcome.

            He leans against the wall, legs tangled in the bedsheets. His eyes close. He fell asleep late, and now he can feel that it is late in the day. Maybe nearly noon. Still he is tired. He would gladly accept a few more hours of sleep.

            It is of no consequence if he does. Marcus has plenty of water and hay. James can just stay in here and sleep all day, if he pleases. The idea should horrify him, but right now he finds that he does not really care. Death has come to visit his dreams. He can do what he likes.

            Sighing, he lifts his head, looking about the shuttered home. Maybe he will sleep some more, but he needs to take a piss, and that will not be put off.

            So he gets to his feet, stretching. While he does that, he notices the piece of paper that has been slipped beneath his door.

            The little skip in his chest makes him scowl. He is not that kind of man.

            _Keep telling yourself that_.

            James crosses the floorboards, and picks up the paper. Unfolding it, he frowns slightly. The top half has been written in English, but the majority of what has been written is in Hebrew, and therefore entirely unintelligible to him.

            ‘James—I can only offer my admiration for your skill and my deep gratitude for the gift. You have been so very kind to me, and I am unsure what I have done to merit it. I am afraid I shall not be available for one of our evening chats the next few days, thus my leaving you this note in place of thanking you properly in person. I hope you shall forgive me for that. Until I see you next, I remain, Ezra Wake.’

            It is a rejection. James understands it quite clearly. He is upset, yes, but not—mortified, which he assumed he would be. He put himself forward, and Ezra stepped back. Sometimes that is merely how Ezra is. Maybe he will come around, and maybe not.

            James, though, will not live a life of shame.

            Why the Hebrew, though? Why write to him in such a way that no one would be able to understand? Maybe it is him telling James off, telling him not to be so foolish. That he is wearing his heart on his sleeve, and should put it back in his chest, behind the bars of his ribs.

            Or maybe it is an apology.

            Whatever the case, James does not feel terrible about the response. He feels as though he has made himself clear with the gesture. It is not his move to make now.

            He refolds the paper, then goes to place it in his journal.

 

_August 11, 1721_

_I realized today that I have not thought of Silver and the rest for some time. I could not even recall the last time I had so much as considered them. When I saw them in my mind’s eye, I waited for the rage to follow._

_Only it did no such thing. The memory of them did rankle, I cannot deny this, but it did not set my blood aboil._

_As always, there is that whisper that accuses me of softness, of losing who I am out here in the woods. However, I have a reply this time: I do not think I lose who I am, but perhaps who I was._

_Flint would have spent the day in a murderous snit over the thought of the_ Walrus _. I do not claim to be the man I was before. McGraw either. He would have thought the whole business a bit unseemly and endeavoured to ignore it. I will not ignore my past, nor will I beat my fists bloody against a brick wall, wailing about how I did not get my way._

_They were my crew. Until they were not. It was my ship. Until it was not. And the fault lays with none save myself._

_Strange to think it, to read it, let alone believe it. Yet I do. What I lost was mine to lose, and I ignored all warnings trying to steer me from the disastrous course I took._

_I hated Ezra a little, all those months ago, when he said that Silver was right, even as I begrudgingly agreed with him. Now I have come to the same conclusion on my own. With annoyance, yes, but I have arrived where all others came long before me._

_To lead there must be love. I do not mean romantic love, but at the very least passion. The worst of us care only for things, regardless of human lives. You see captains like that who are more murderers at sea than sailors. I regret that at times I have strayed into their ilk._ Meditations _may be my bible, but I have followed it as closely as Christians follow their holy text, which is to say poorly._

_I took to this life for love of Thomas. I lost myself in it for love of him, and then Miranda. But I never loved my crew. At best they were pawns, at worst impediments. I lied to them, risked them, killed them, when it suited my designs. Gates was my best friend, and I murdered him because he disagreed with me. He warned me, just like Silver. Silver lives because he understood that I did not love the crew and would sacrifice the lot of them. That is not a captain. That is a madman behind the wheel of a ship._

_Silver loved the crew. I believe that when he first came to us he would have said or done anything to secure himself, but I think that he came to love the men, and the life they led. What they stood for, not the soldiers I tried to make them in my personal crusade. He loved them, and in the absence of a sane man at the helm, they loved him back. They respected him. I think, at one time, they respected me. Gates was the turning point. As well it should have been. I reeled them back to me, time and again, through cunning and oratory, but there was no way I could compete with genuine feeling._

_I wonder how they fare. Captain Silver and the_ Walrus _. It does not fill me with animosity as it would before. They were free men, and made their choice freely. That autonomy was a thing that I believed in once. I believe again. I believe in a man’s right to self-determination. They chose, and I have chosen, and if the king has any issue with it, I have several suggestions for what he might do about it, though I doubt he would appreciate the phrasing._

_And so here we are. James McGraw in the new world, and his former crew somewhere, far far away. It is not so terrible a thing._

_I have found my happinesses. I have a home, and a fine horse, and companionship, though that is admittedly in question at the moment. I have the start of what may be a new vocation._

_There is all that, and I find as well that I no longer live a life dictated by fury. That is in itself a comfort._

_Those kinds of things can be left to younger men. I think I prefer to simply live, and live simply._

 

James mumbles, “Your dog, Wake. Get up.” He rolls closer to the wall, drawing the sheet higher over his shoulder.

            The dog barks again, and James growls, trying to cling to sleep. He feels like he has barely slept at all, eyes sore from lack of rest. Ezra can go get the damn dog.

            The dog.

            James lifts his head, startled. The dog is barking outside, and James is alone in his dark, locked home. His internal clock tells him that is barely past midnight.

            “Shuck?” he says.

            Gathering himself quickly, he climbs off the bed, going to the front door. His pulse has picked up, and he wastes no time in taking down the latch. Spreading the door wide, he braces himself for what he might find.

            What he finds is nearly nothing, and that is just as worrisome. Black Shuck takes the single step, nosing between his legs and panting. He does not seem out of breath or distressed, merely glad to see James.

            Crouching, James runs his hands over the dog’s muzzle and back, searching for any injury, or blood that is not his own. He finds nothing. The dog is perfectly content. There is no shaking James’ unease, however. Ezra would never send Black Shuck away into the night with no reason, and the dog is too well trained to have simply run off.

            James is already resolved to go check on Ezra when his fingers snag on something, and he hears a light tinkle. He pauses. By touch, he follows the slender chain that has been secured around Black Shuck’s neck, hidden beneath all his fur. The dog sits patiently as James finds the objects that have been threaded around the chain.

            He rubs his thumb over them a moment, his insides going still.

            “Ran off, didn’t you,” James murmurs, putting Black Shuck’s head. “Yeah.” He straightens, going to get his shirt. He has a dog to return and a question to be answered.

 

They go through the woods, a path that James knows by heart but Black Shuck guides the way. He will take a few quick steps ahead of James, then look back to be sure he follows.

            James’ stomach is doing something. Not churning. It is certainly not doing that. Whatever it is doing, his mind is as clear as it has ever been.

            They come to the edge of the clearing, and James looks for a candle, any sign that Ezra is awake. The house is unlit and quiet. For a moment, the barest of moments, he entertains the notion that Ezra has simply gone. It disappears from his mind the moment it appears. Ezra would never abandon Black Shuck, and certainly not the items that now hang from the dog’s neck.

            Walking to the back door, James tries it. “Locked you out, did he.” The dog whimpers beside him, on his haunches. James takes a breath, unsure of what mood he will find Ezra in. Finding the key, he opens the door.

            The dog pushes past him, scrambling into the dark house, and James sees his outline as Black Shuck bounds up the stairs.

            As he closes the door after himself, he hears a surprised, sleepy, “What the hell—“ James sets the key down on one of the shelves, stepping out of his shoes. After a moment, a voice comes down the stairs. “James?”

            “Yes.” He climbs the stairs, a hand to the wall to steady himself in the dark.

            Ezra sits on the edge of his bed, the dog’s head in his hands. He looks at James with some reserve in the moonlight. After all, his missive two days ago asked for distance.

            Leaning against the wall, James says, “He showed up on my doorstep, barking.”

            Ezra’s face falls. “Oh, for—“ He lifts Black Shuck’s head with some consternation. “I only just put him out. Why would you run off like that, you foolish thing?”

            “You locked the door on him and fell asleep.”

            For a moment, Ezra does nothing. Then he hisses at Black Shuck in Hebrew, and the dog darts away, clamouring down the stairs. Ezra shakes his head, avoiding James’ gaze. “I apologize for the disturbance. I thought him better behaved.”

            He silences when James crosses the room. James sits beside him, their thighs pressed together. He does not want there to be any misconception about what he asks. Ezra shifts, discomfited, but does not move away. James reaches across for Ezra’s left hand. He does not want to press the point of taking his right. There is some resistance—Ezra realizes that he knows—but Ezra offers no more fight than that.

            James takes Ezra’s hand in both of his, searching with his fingers. He turns the palm over, holding it in place. With his thumb, he traces where a ring has always been, and now is not. It and its partner now rest on a chain around Black Shuck’s neck.

            Ezra’s head is bent, so there is no telling what his reaction is. James searches for any indication, but finds none.

            Holding Ezra’s hand with both of his own, James says, “If it has nothing to do with me, and you merely believed the time had come, I will not mention it again, nor will I feel sorely about it. It is not my place to dictate how you grieve, or how you choose to remember. I would, though, appreciate if you told me whether this was in any part about you and I.”

            For a long moment, Ezra does nothing at all, and James begins to despair.

            Gently, Ezra’s fingers flex, and lightly touch him back.

            He whispers, “Yes.”

            James drops his head. He cannot stop himself. Relief and apprehension flood in at once. They mix, and there is that thing in his stomach again. Knowing has not lessened it.

            Ezra hesitantly moves his hand under James’, and James can feel a quiver in in his flesh. He bends his head, trying to force Ezra’s gaze.

            With a grimace, Ezra murmurs, “How is it that…. I do not fear death. I do not shy from taking a man’s life, nor from declaring the pieces of myself that in most parts of the world would get me killed. I have told you before, the only thing that frightens me is the thought of a cage. But this….” He inhales sharply. “James, why am I so fucking afraid?” God damn Ezra Wake. Fearless even in revealing his fear. He shakes his head. “How will this end—“

            Putting a hand to Ezra’s cheek, James cuts off the words. Ezra’s black eyes finally follow him as James strokes his fingertips over the ridge of a cheekbone. “What way is that to live?” Ezra presses his face into James’ hand. Moving closer, James murmurs, “No way at all.”

            He pulls Ezra closer, kissing him. He can feel Ezra’s hesitation. Not about him, though that is a minor miracle, but what should happen—for the loss of this. James does not try to rush him, to try and convince him of anything. That would be foolishness. Ezra is smarter than him, and he comes to things in his own time.

            He keeps Ezra’s hand in his, lacing his other fingers through Ezra’s black hair. Nothing about this is fast or rough. It is rather tender, the truth be told, and what a peculiarity, that two people so undeserving should find some softness in this world. He pats Ezra’s hair, touches the short strands at the nape of his neck, kisses him so gently that he shocks himself. He kisses Ezra as though he is worried about breaking him.

            Never. On this whole wretched planet, there are no two less likely to break than James McGraw and Ezra Wake.

            Shifting, James turns, prompting Ezra to do the same. He feels Ezra go flexible under his hands instead of frightened, how his lips become receptive, how he presses forward slightly. Letting James lead, but still present.

            James is more than willing to move Ezra about, to make the decisions. He understands that it is a gift. This man, despite his reservations, trusts James enough to allow them both gentleness.

            James pulls Ezra up against him, so the other man has to twist onto his knees. He slips his hands around Ezra’s back, nudging at his forehead, then bending forward to take kiss after measured kiss. His fingertips map the ridges that mark Ezra’s entire back. God only knows why, but he loves this part of Ezra, perhaps even best. The man walks the world with countless secrets, yet holds his head high.

            _How could I not want you_? James thinks, feeling Ezra’s whimper against his tongue. His fingers ghost down Ezra’s scarred, straight spine.

            Ezra climbs onto James then, but not like he has before. It is not fierce or desperate, but James can sense how he cannot bear to be parted by anything so trivial as space. Ezra crawls onto his lap, wrapping his legs around James’ waist, arms hooking around his neck. He pushes upwards to kiss James, rubbing his close shaven chin against James’ stubble. His hand slides down to carefully cup James’ face.

            All the while, Ezra is trembling.

            So James whispers against his jaw, “Mine.” He feels the jolt that shoots through Ezra, and a moment later Ezra is holding him tightly. As tightly as he ever has. He buries his face in James’ shoulder and does not move.

            James is unsure if he has done something right or something wrong. He says it again, and Ezra shakes even more.

            James forces his head up with both hands. Ezra nods abruptly, then kisses him like he is the source for oxygen.

            And so James lays him down.

           

He can sense that something is off.

            Opening his eyes, he startles, drawing back his head. “Good Christ.”

            Frowning, Ezra replies, “What?”

            Settling back against the pillow, James says, “I never thought to see the day where you woke before me.”

            With a scowl, Ezra shoves him. James merely grins crookedly. He yawns, dropping his arms above his head.

            “You’re on my side,” Ezra grumbles.

            “Well, you draped yourself across me from the side you’re on, so I take no responsibility.”

            Ezra mutters, “Incorrigible.” He turns onto his belly, pushing his arms up under the pillow. The light is still dull and hazy on this side of the house. The lines on his back are lightly shadowed.

            James reaches over, scratching his fingers along that scars that stretch down Ezra’s side. Ezra shuts his eyes, relaxing.

            “I’ve never asked. Do you like that?”

            “I’d tell you to stop if I did not. Besides, it is not the kind of thing you and I discuss, is it.”

            “I know the kind of mouth you have, Wake.”

            “One thing to tell a man to come all over your face. Another to tell him how much you like how carefully he cleans you off afterwards.”

            “Do you like that?”

            “I do,” Ezra says simply. James reaches up, taking Ezra’s right hand. The other man lets him, watching his own hand as James inspects it. In nearly a year, James has never once seen Ezra without his rings. “It feels strange. Like my hand is not really my hand. Have you ever felt that way?”

            “Shortly after an impertinent bastard showed up on my doorstep and insisted I completely change my wardrobe to avoid scaring the children.”

            The right side of Ezra’s mouth pulls up. “I was correct, though.” His fingers close around James’ hand.

            Wondering if he is making a fool of himself, but forging forward nonetheless, James says, “You know that it would not matter to me if you wore them always.”

            Ezra studies him. After a moment, he squirms a few inches closer, resting his hand on James’ chest, thumb still hooked around his fingers. “I came to the decision that it was time of my own accord. And they are only things. They do not change what happened, or my affections. I will always be Ezra Wake. My name will not change again. There is a part of me that will always be his, that I cannot give to anyone else. Just as there is a part of you that will always be Thomas’, and Miranda’s. But just like that is not all there is to you, that is not all there is to me. And so here we are.”

            “Are you sure that’s really the safest place for them? With the dog?”

            “They’re just things,” Ezra repeats. “When Black Shuck dies, I will bury them with him.”

            James squeezes his hand. “Did you like the cabinet?”

            “James, it is so—“ Ezra stops himself, then laughs softly. “I do want you to know something. My affections for you don’t increase when you give me things. They just have a tendency to be expressed when you do.”

            “Liar.”

            “ _No_ ,” Ezra says, and he even blushes slightly. He presses his face into the pillow, groaning. “God, how is it that you reduce me to…I am a dangerous man, you know. I am an exceedingly dangerous man, but with you, sometimes—no, I’m not even going to say it.”

            James drags him bodily on top of his chest. Ezra ducks his head, wincing. “Say it,” James drawls.

            “Why?”

            “Because we’re not the kind of men given to saying things like these. But we ought to. Sometimes, at least.” James jostles him. “Say it.”

            Ezra crosses his arms on James’ chest, resting his chin on top of them. He takes a deep breath, then looks James right in the eyes. “Sometimes, with you—I feel as though you and I…could be happy.” His gaze sharpens. “Go ahead. Take the piss.”

            “Ezra Wake—secret optimist—“

            “Yes, there it is.”

            He tries to move away, but James traps him with his arms. “Will you be still for a moment?”

            “No.” But he does not struggle anymore.

            James prepares himself, then says, “I am not a man given to…pronouncements when it comes to…affections. I tried that once, and…well, it obviously ended badly. It’s easier for me to do things to convey myself to you. Words can be hollow. I’d be a hypocrite, though, if I made you speak and did not do the same myself. So if there’s anything you’d like to hear from me, now would be the time to ask.”

            Mulling it over, Ezra chews on his lower lip, then says, “I want you to promise something.”

            “All right.”

            “Never tell me that you love me.” James blinks in surprise, and Ezra amends, “If that is ever a thing that you should feel for me. The word…bothers me. It’s too small. It’s an irrelevant word. I like deeds. So if the day should ever come that you suddenly feel the urge to say such a thing—don’t.” Ezra cringes. “Am I being presumptuous?”

            James gives his head a shake. “No,” he murmurs. “I promise. You’ll do the same?”

            “I shall.” There is a shadow across Ezra’s face, and James pushes his hair back, catching his gaze. Clearing his throat, Ezra says, “Nothing. Just words.” His brow furrows. “How does this make sense?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “I know the world is an unfair place. I have experienced it firsthand. But that two men such as we—murderers, thieves—should have even a moment of happiness—how can others believe in fairness? They can’t all be that stupid, can they?”

            “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

            “Unbelievable,” Ezra mutters. He tilts his head to rest against James’ hand, then sighs, a touch wistful. “I—cannot help but feel guilt over Henry.”

            “How much?”

            “As much as I like. He was my husband. Do you not feel bad about moving on from those you have lost?”

            “I know they would want for me to be happy. Wouldn’t your Henry want that for you?”

            Ezra lets out a bark of amusement. “James—if Henry Wake were to rise from the dead this moment and find us here, he would cut your throat before you could even raise your head off that pillow. He would be _livid_.”

            “You don’t think he would want you to be happy?”

            “I think he expected me to pine forever. Frankly, I expected the same.” Ezra narrows his eyes at James. “But you always have to be difficult.”

            James snorts. “I’m the difficult one. Of the two of us, you think I’m difficult.”

            “You’re damned right I do.”

            “You are a bloody mystery.”

            Ezra smiles. “I am at that.”

            They look at one another a moment, then Ezra lays his head on James’ chest. Wrapping his arms around him, James threads his fingers through Ezra’s dark hair, and exists in the moment alone. Not past, not the future, but here, just he and Ezra, together and relatively untroubled, no matter what may come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of you lovely people made this beautiful [mood board](http://flintbysilver.tumblr.com/post/153011057138/there-are-men-undeserving-of-second-chances)  
> for the story and I think it's perfect. Everyone should go look at it.  
> Coming near the end--thank you again to all of you for everything. The support, the comments, the commitment, it's all gold, and I'm grateful for every last one of you.


	28. The Honesty of Monsters

“Well,” Ezra says with a barely contained smile, “don’t you clean up nicely, Mr. McGraw.”

            “Fuck yourself, Wake,” James replies.

            He tugs on his waistcoat as Ezra laughs, getting to his feet. He is already uncomfortable, and they have not even left Ezra’s. Foolishly, he had thought that last night’s thunderstorm might clear away some of the heavy heat settled over the land. The air is still dense, still unmoving. At last, even he is bothered by it.

            The suit is not one he has worn since buying it in Portsmouth months ago. It is a dark blue. Even, he thinks grumpily, a navy blue. Fitted. Why do all these clothes have to be so bloody fitted?

            Ezra has also dressed for the occasion, in a grey suit he only takes out at holidays. For the first time, he has pulled the top half of his hair into a short ponytail. It looks unbelievably fetching, and has the immediate effect on James of wanting to take his hair back down and tear his clothes off.

            Amused, Ezra pulls James’ hands away from his waistcoat, and smoothes his fingers over the buttons. “You look quite handsome,” he says softly.

            “It’s uncomfortable.”

            “Well, just think of how much more comfortable you will be later when I take it off of you. Button…by button…by button.” He looks up at James from under his brows, lower lip caught between his teeth.

            Shaking his head, James responds, “Don’t do that.”

            “Do what?”

            “Look so fuckable that we won’t even leave the house. If I unbutton anything, it isn’t going on again, and Fraser personally assured me that he would come find me if I wasn’t there by—Christ, I can’t even remember. For all I know, he could be on his way—“

            Ezra slips his arms around James’ waist, standing taller to shut him up with a kiss. It is the same flavour as the last two days—unrushed, affectionate. They have come to an accord, the two of them, though it is little discussed.

            James is falling in love with Ezra, and Ezra is falling in love with him, and that is all there is to it.

            Bumping his nose against James’, Ezra murmurs, “If you behave yourself for three hours, I will do _anything_ you like.”

            Arching a brow, James says flatly, “Three hours?”

            Eyes smoldering, Ezra says slowly, “Want me to pull you into the shop and have me suck you so hard you go weak in the knees? I’ll do it. Come back here—tie me to the bed—blindfold me—and fuck me until I can’t even speak, until all I can do is writhe and moan for you? We’ll do that.” Pushing himself up higher, Ezra lowers his voice to a husky whisper. “Have you ever seen me crawl, James? Do you know…what I look like…when I am on all fours, and I crawl across the floor to you like an errant bitch?” James cannot help his shudder, nor ignore that these damned fitted pants make it impossible to discreetly have an erection. A spark flickering in his eyes, Ezra strokes the back of his fingers over James’ jaw. “That one. That’s what you’d like to do.” Ezra nods, and promises, “Behave for three hours, and I will prostrate myself in front of you like you’re my fucking king.”

            A man only has so much self-control. James almost crushes Ezra against him, mouth hungry and impatient and sure as hell not willing to wait three hours. Maybe the last few days have been of a certain mood, but James is more than ready to return to a more dangerous kind of play, and it would seem he is not alone. Ezra has a vise grip on the back of his neck, pushing their bodies together. Ezra sucks James’ tongue past his teeth, fighting him from head to toe.

            And then pushing him off, hands hard against his shoulders. Chin up, he says defiantly, “Three hours.”

            Growling, James says, “So help me—“

            Slipping away, Ezra teases, “Control yourself, old man.”

            Hands curling into fists a moment, James follows him towards the door. “If I still had a decent sword—“

            Ezra opens the door, shooing Black Shuck out ahead of them. “Yes, what did happen to the last one again?”

            James slams him up against the wall with one hand, and he is pleased to see Ezra’s pupils dilate. “Oh, you’ll do more than crawl for me tonight, Wake.” He lets Ezra go, walking out into the humid afternoon.

            After a moment, he hears a throat clear, and Ezra murmur, “Quite.”

            James grins.

 

It is not terrible.

            If Ezra asks later, James will not admit it. He will mutter and grumble and cast aspersions on every single denizen of The Edge that he came in contact with.

            The truth, though, is that Smithe Day is not so terrible.

            The food is plentiful and good, and everyone seems happy for the respite from the normal routine. Everyone, or near everyone, is all smiles. Even the Greers look happy for once, instead of eyeing everyone in paranoia. At one point, James even sees Mr. Greer slip an arm around Mrs. Greer’s back, and give her a quick, inconspicuous kiss on the forehead, to which she gently pushes him away, but there is a small smile on her face.

            Children run around underfoot seemingly everywhere, though James supposes only ten of the village’s inhabitants could be described as such. They laugh as they play, unencumbered by things like waistcoats and jackets.

            He is, thankfully, without the latter. When Fraser saw him, he had his shirt sleeves rolled up, red cheeked with the warmth. He took one look at James, and yelped, “Good lord, man.” He clapped him on the arm, shaking his head. “You’re making me overheat. Take that bloody jacket off before I expire just from looking at you.”

            Trying to find Ezra in the crowd with narrowed eyes, James replied, “Mr. Wake advised me to wear full attire.”

            “I think Mr. Wake may be having you on. Besides, he never feels the heat, the bastard.”

            Fraser has given a speech about community that everyone listened politely to, and the parson gave a prayer that most politely ignored. They are all far more content to sit out on the grass, eating and laughing, wiping their brows and talking over the events of the summer, and its completion.

            James realizes that is what this is to the villagers. Soon enough it will be September, and fall, and then snow, and everyone will mostly retreat inside for the winter. These are the last days of summer, and not a one of them really care about Smithe Day. They just want the opportunity to bring an end to the season.

            Even the last of the Smithes blend in with the rest. Milly stays close to Robert. She has a small, shy smile on her face, giving quick little nods to anyone who passes. It is the happiest James has ever seen her. When Robert leans over to say something in her ear, she covers her mouth, but there is no missing the pleasure in her eye.

            “Mr. Moore.”

            James looks over, and says, “Tess.”

            The tavern owner crosses her arms, standing beside him and following his previous gaze. “Enjoying the view?”

            “Your son seems happy.”

            “He is.”

            James lifts the biscuit in his hand, asking, “Did you make this, and is this your way of making sure the poison in it works?”

            She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come now. I’ve had better opportunities to kill you than this, Mr. Moore.”

            James snaps the biscuit in half, then says, completely on a whim, “Tess. I’ve never said this to you before—actually, I don’t think I’ve said this to anyone in your situation—but I am sorry. For what I did to you.”

            The red headed woman gazes up at him. “No you’re not,” she says evenly.

            James thinks about it, and raises his brows. “Actually—I am.” She frowns. “I did any number of reprehensible things over the course of some years, and I don’t regret most of them. I should, but I don’t. I couldn’t count how many people I’ve killed. I should feel sorry for not remembering the number, but I think that’s just been burned out of my conscience, if I even have one. I do, however…feel badly about all the people who simply got in my way. You were only trying to live. You weren’t my enemy, but I stole from you. You’ll hate me until the end of time, and rightly so. I don’t ask for an apology, and frankly I think the existence of one would put my teeth on edge. But I am sorry for making you hate anyone. I quite like you.”

            From all that, Tess says, “You like me, Mr. Moore?”

            He smiles crookedly. “Where else would I find someone so willing to dispose of bodies in the middle of the night?”

            She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Where else would I get all the meat for the stew?”

            She walks away, and James says, a touch startled, “Mrs. O’Donnell?” She looks back. “Do you jest?”

            Tess eyes him a moment, then saunters back. Leaning in close, she says below her breath, “Ask Robert Senior, boyo.” She bares her teeth, then goes to join her son and Milly Smithe.

            James clears his throat, trying to think of anyone else who might have died over the last year. After all, he did a lot of things at sea, but eating human flesh was never one of them.

            _Oh, you’re one to bloody judge_ , he thinks, and goes to find someone to talk to.

 

He stays away from Ezra. It would be easy to stay by his side, to let him make the conversation and hide behind that. But James knows that Ezra will be far more impressed if he does this entirely on his own.

            Make conversation for three fucking _hours_.

            Strange, that he should want to please someone in such a way. The last time he did anything like this was for Miranda. It was at one of her and Thomas’ gatherings. All those wealthy fools who claimed to share their ideology and then ran when it was truly time to show their colours. Thomas would have been perfectly content if James just stayed with him the entire night, or if he went and sat against a wall, uncomfortable and nursing the same drink. It was Miranda, though, who teased, “For me, James—all I ask is for the effort. I’m not asking you to _like_ it.” Her eyes had sparkled, and how could he refuse her?

            Now, here he is a decade and a half later, making nice with a bunch of backwoods villagers, in New Hampshire of all places, to please a Jewish pirate surgeon who sucks cock like a fiend and who James cannot bear to be parted from.

            James watches him discreetly from across the town centre. Ezra is deep in conversation with Lizzy, who reaches up to touch his hair. Ezra frowns, taking it out of his ponytail, shaking his hair out, before tying it up again. Black Shuck sits at their feet, watching them and panting. Lizzy laughs about something, and Ezra laughs back, easy and simple.

            James will never be like that, he does not think. He will not blend so well with everyone else. He will never blend, no matter where he goes. Ezra, though, is a chameleon. James thinks he would be equally comfortable, in manor house or a shed in the woods.

            He recalls the first time he set eyes on Ezra Wake. Impertinent, slender thing coming onto James’ property atop that preposterous horse. Not afraid of James in the least. James wonders if Ezra has ever been scared of him. Even for a moment.

            _No_ , James realizes, _I don’t think he ever was_.

            He is filled with a sudden rush of affection, of love, for Ezra Wake. The only man alive who does not fear him, even knowing all that he is.

            Mrs. Walters passes by, nodding to him. “Mr. Moore.”

            “Mrs. Walters.” An idea strikes James, and he pushes himself to his feet. “Excuse me, Mrs. Walters?”

            She turns back to him. She is some months pregnant, looking unhappy about the heat. “Yes, Mr. Moore?”

            James asks himself what he is doing, then speaks. “Last fall, you made a request of me and I am afraid I turned you down quite rudely. I admit, I have more rough edges than smooth. More so when I originally came here.” This goes against the grain, but—Christ, he means to truly be a part of this community. He might not blend, but he will be a part. “If you do ever decide that you would like me to speak to the children about sailing, I would be more than happy to, and would make sure it was appropriate to their age.”

            Mrs. Walters laughs after a moment. “Mr. Moore—I thank you. We shall discuss details another day, if you do not mind. I should like to sit down.”

            “Of course.” He nods, and she walks away.

            James jumps a little when a voice almost directly behind him says, “I never thought I would see the day.” James rolls his eyes as Fraser walks around him, looking distinctly smug. “Offering to come in to speak to the children. Our Mr. Moore? Truly?”

            “Bugger off, Alastair,” James mutters.

            Chuckling, Fraser crosses his arms. “I always knew you had a soft spot about you. Try as you might to cover it. Rebecca Smithe. That Indian boy. Now the whole of Dudley’s children.”

            “Did you hear me when I told you to bugger off?”

            “Oh aye.” Fraser leans over. “Next you’ll be telling me you want one of Lizzy’s kittens.”

            “I’ll do no such thing.”

            “Truth of it is, do you want one? I don’t know what to do with the damned things.”

            “Nor would I.”

            “Have a pet! For God’s sakes, if I haven’t yet convinced you to take a wife, you could at the least have a cat. They’re good for the vermin.”

            “You’ll not convince me,” James says stubbornly.

            Fraser makes an infuriating sound that suggests he thinks he probably will, then looks around. “This has gone quite well, hasn’t it.” James follows his gaze, seeing the near fifty people milling around as the sun begins to sink towards the hill tops. Fraser snorts, nodding to the stocks. “There’s a welcome change.”

            Two of the children—one of them Rebecca Smithe—are sitting back against the stocks, making flower chains. “What, that it’s a Smithe not _in_ the things?”

            Fraser casts him a look that tells him he has come quite close to hitting the mark. “It’s my first year in this place without a drunken Smithe lording it over everyone else on this day. Last year I sprung Oliver from the stocks early so he could make a better show of himself on the day, but he vomited all over Abigail’s pie, and made an utter arse of himself.”

            “Why am I not surprised?”

            “Hmm.” Fraser brightens. “So—I hear that Lizzy might have come to you for something.”

            “What something?”

            “She’s doing all your preserves, sir. I’m daft, but I’m not that daft. What is it?”

            “You know, Alastair, I think you only pretend to be forgetful. I think you actually know _everything_.”

            Fraser barks, then leans over. “I really don’t, but best to let them think I do at times.” He turns fully to James, giving his arm a smack. “James, I just remembered. I’m thinking of maybe taking another trip out west. Wondered if you would care to join me.”

            “I’d be happy to,” James says honestly. “What does Lizzy think about you going again so soon?”

            Lifting a hand, Fraser says guiltily, “Let’s just keep it under our hats for now.” He is about to speak again, but raises his head, looking towards the road. “Whoever could that be?”

            A moment later, James is completely on guard. He hears the sound of multiple hoof beats on the ground, and the creaking of a wagon. But heavy. Someone—a number of someones—is coming, and quickly.

            When they come around the buildings, he feels his insides go very still. Behind him, he hears the rest of the village go utterly silent, watching the strangers approach. No one seems to know what to do about the sudden appearance of these strangers.

            Six members of his majesty’s service, in their red coats, come to a stop on the edge of the center. They all sit tall and proud, on large, beautiful horses. They look like they have come from a completely different world. They are intruders. They should not be here.

            But what worries James most of all is that they have arrived with a prison wagon. It is covered along the sides, but the metal bars on the windows leave no doubt as to its purpose.

            _I have no sword_ , James thinks desperately.

            His first instinct is that they have come for him. Someone sent word—Tess maybe—that he would be in town on this day. He can make a run for it. He is on the south eastern edge of the square. He could slip between the buildings and make for home, get Marcus. A weapon, he will need a weapon—

            But for a moment, everyone is still in the early evening heat.

            Fraser is the one to break. He leaves James, striding forward. He goes to the edge of the crowd, but no further, as James makes discreet steps backwards.

            “I’m Alastair Fraser, magistrate of Dudley and the surrounding area. How might I help you?”

            The man at the front speaks in a clipped accent. “As representatives of his majesty’s government, we have arrived to serve a warrant.”

            _Run, weapon, horse, escape. Run, weapon, horse, escape—_

            “Whoever for?” Fraser asks in shock.

            The soldier says, “Mrs. Edward Smithe, for the murder of her husband.”

            James stops thinking about escape.

            A wave of shock moves through the villagers. People start looking at one another, jaws falling open. After a moment, Fraser says hoarsely, “Sir, you are mistaken. Ned Smithe died of cancer—“

            “ _Sir_ ,” the soldier snaps, “if you are in fact the magistrate, your inability to do your job has brought us here. First a woman murders her husband, and then you allow a man to murder three of our kindred when they arrived to investigate the manner. I should think very carefully about any argument you care to raise, though I doubt you will hold any position at all once this matter has come to a close.”

            A man’s voice breaks out from the crowd. “You greedy bastards!”

            Robert O’Donnell has gotten to his feet, striding forward a few feet and putting himself bodily between the soldiers and Milly. The woman has gone positively grey, her one eye wide with shock.

            Fists clenched, Robert shouts, “Milly hasn’t done a damned thing! Everyone in this village knows Ned Smithe died of cancer, watched him die of cancer, and that fucking rich cousin of his paid you off to come here. Today! Do you think anyone wouldn’t realize that, you poncy fucks?!”

            Other people are beginning to rise, and James is suddenly desperate to know where Ezra is. He looks around, trying to find him, but that familiar black head has disappeared.

            “Milly hasn’t done anything!” Mrs. Ryder cries out. Others join her, and everyone is getting to their feet. The Edge, as always, protects their own.

            James, meanwhile, is trying to figure out what to do. He needs to find Ezra. These people are on their bloody own. He has to—

            A wetness snuffles at his hand, and James looks down, startled. Black Shuck sits at his side, looking up at him with mournful eyes and whining. “Where’s Ezra?” James demands. Black Shuck shuffles slightly, then drops down again on his behind, staring at James.

            _Oh Christ._ James remembers what happened the last time red coats came through here determined to take away one of the villagers. This could turn into a blood bath.

            “Shuck,” James says, “where’s Ezra?” He tries to move, but the dog blocks his way, sitting stubbornly in front of him.

            Before he can figure out what the hell is wrong with the dog, the soldier yells over everyone, “So help me _God_ , I will arrest the lot of you! Anyone who stands in the way of our delivering this warrant will also be charged with the murder of Edward Smithe, and put to the same gallows as the murderess!”

            That shuts everyone up.

            “This is madness,” Fraser tells them.

            “This is the law,” the soldier tells him, and James’ blood boils. God, but if he had a sword. The man looks over the crowd. “Now—step aside. Mrs. Smithe _will_ stand trial for murder.”

            A voice says clearly, “That—would be a _terrible_ mistake.”

            James’ stomach drops.

            He and everyone else find Ezra. He has separated himself from the crowd, standing alone near to his shop, about thirty feet from the soldiers. To James’ disbelief, he is not armed. All he does is stand there, gazing at the soldiers without blinking.

            Snidely, the soldier asks, “And why would that be?”

            Ezra says calmly, “Because I’m the one who killed him.”

            For the second time in as many minutes, the breath is sucked from everyone in the village.

            Ezra does not look at anyone, only the snide man at the front of the pack. “I’m Ezra Wake. I’m the apothecary. I told everyone that Ned Smithe suffered from cancer, but he didn’t.”

            “Are you saying you consorted with Mrs. Smithe—“

            “Don’t be ridiculous. Milly had nothing to do with this. I have no remorse over killing the man, but I’ll not let an innocent woman take my place for a crime that I and I alone committed.”

            From the middle of the crowd, a wavering voice lifts. Milly is staring at Ezra. “You didn’t. Ezra—Ezra, tell me you didn’t.”

            Without looking at her, his gaze still unmoving from the man in charge, Ezra says, “Ned Smithe came to me with a broken finger. He was drunk. I asked him how he had broken it, and he said hitting Milly. He passed out in my shop, and I went to check on her. He’d not just hit her. He had beat her so badly that he crushed the left side of her face, destroyed her eye. I asked her why he did it, and she told me that he tried to rape their daughter, who at the time was four, and she put herself between them. I set her to rights the best I was able, and decided then to kill him, and proceeded to do so over the course of two months. I used arsenic.”

            The stillness is broken by a scream.

            “MURDERER!” Milly wails, trying to run at Ezra. Robert grabs her, picking her off her feet. She kicks and fights, her face contorted with fury. “You MURDERER! You killed my husband! You killed him! You murderer! You killed him!”

            Ezra pays her no attention, merely continuing his story. “I pretended to check in on him about his finger, and put the poison in his drink. It made him quite ill, and so he came to me about it. I made him a remedy, and put more arsenic in that, and we continued from there. After a month, I told him that the only possibility could be cancer of the stomach. I told him it was a particularly terrible strain, and that I would do all I could to make him comfortable. In fact, I did all that was in my power to make sure that his last two months on this earth were an agony, and no one suspected me, because I’ve done everything in my power to garner these people’s trust. No one save his brother ever believed it was anything but cancer, because no one ever thought I’d do such a thing. But I did. I killed him, and that inbred drunken bastard never laid a hand on his wife or child again.”

            Milly is still screaming, and Fraser hollers, “Robert, get her out of here!”

            The soldier says, “You’ll do no such thing!” He sets a hard gaze on Ezra. “It is quite a story. But for all I know, you conspired with the woman to kill the man.”

            Ezra sighs softly. James sees him think for a moment, and wants to tell him to stop, wants to scream at him to stop.

            But Ezra sets his soldiers, and smiles slightly. “You’ve already received your payment from Ned’s cousin, I suppose. However, I can offer you something far more valuable than coin, gentleman.”

            “And what do you suppose that is, Mr.--?”

            “Wake. Ezra Wake. You abandon this foolishness of trying to charge an innocent woman for a crime that she had nothing to do with, and I will confess to ten others murders.”

            _Don’t_ , James wants to yell, as he hears heartbroken voices murmuring, “Ezra….”

            Ezra tilts his head, giving the soldier the same cocky, know-it-all smile that James used to hate. “I’ve only been here a few years. These people think I’m simply an apothecary. I’m not. I came here to hide after killing six people and castrating a seventh. A man wronged me, so I murdered his son and wife in New York, then went to his home and killed the man’s wife and three other sons before I cut off his bollocks.”

            One of the other soldiers says, “Christ almighty.” The lead soldier looks back, and the younger man leans forward. “The Travers murders, sir. He’s talking about that Travers fellow.”

            Some of the smugness goes out of the lead soldier’s face. He looks sideways at Ezra, wariness starting to overcome his expression.

            “Six,” the man says. “You said ten.”

            Ezra’s smile spreads, and he begins to walk slowly towards the soldiers. His voice slips into that common, dangerous accent he uses sometimes, face changing to someone unrecognizable. “That’s cuz, you pompous fuck, I killt the three red coated bastards you set out here last time, and Oliver Smithe just to clear the fuckin’ _board_.” He holds his arms out, upraised for shackles, arching an eyebrow. “So are you going to put the right man in chains, you poxy git, or am I going t’ have to cut off your legs, like I did poor innocent Corp’ral Arnold?”

            He outright grins at the soldiers, looking like a nightmare.

            The man at the front gazes at him, then says quietly, “Take him, Ryerson.”

            It is like a puncture. James gasps in a breath, watching as the village convulses. Milly is carried away, and he watches in shock as Ezra stands calmly, letting himself be placed in chains. Fraser looks like he is about to have a heart attack. Everyone is flabbergasted, not knowing what to do. Most look about ready to fall over. Some have dropped down on the ground, hands to their chests.

            Ezra is the only one entirely composed as he is led to the back of the wagon. He does not look at anyone as he goes, keeping his head high and his gaze blank. He hesitates for only a moment before being hauled up to the cage. James knows this is his worst fear.

            Before he is put inside, he says clearly, “Don’t you do a damned thing.”

            As the door is closed behind him, James turns and runs, Black Shuck on his heels.

 

There is no thought. There is only action.

            He does not doubt. He does not consider another course. He knows exactly what he will do, and damn the consequences.

            James runs down the road and through the woods without stopping, as though he is a man thirty years younger. He will feel it tomorrow, if tomorrow comes, but it matters not.

            _Never again. Never again_.

            The dog keeps pace with him as they barrel through the trees, both of them equal in their desperation. They know what needs to be done.

            James bursts through into the clearing. He does not feel the heat. Night is falling, warm and still. It is the kind of night for terrible things.

            That he will do, and will not spare it a moment’s consideration.

            Scooping up the key from under a rock, he scrambles to unlock the door. Once he does, he throws it wide. He knows the place well enough that he does not need much more light than what an open door affords him. Striding across the floor, he reaches up under the staircase.

            Immediately, his hand finds the sword in its scabbard. Yanking it down, James grabs the handle in one hand and the scabbard in the other. He withdraws the sword a few inches, trying to get a feel for it.

            _Don’t you do a damned thing_.

            Like fuck.

            Ezra Wake murdered four men for him without even liking him. James will not—will _not_ —walk away from him, trapped in a little cage. He will not run away, he will not, he absolutely will not—

            _I should_.

            He stands still a moment.

            It would be better. For him. If he did nothing. He could get on his horse, and get ahead of the soldiers. He would be through Siddeston long before them, held back by the size of their party and the encumbrance of the wagon. If he goes now, he goes with this beautiful sword and with no one the wiser as to his identity. He risks nothing.

            Hatred crushes into him with the force of a tidal wave. He left once. When it mattered the most, he walked away. He never, ever thought to care enough about a person so much that he would think about exposing himself to the world. It seemed an impossibility.

            Ezra saved him. In more ways than one.

            There is no question. He is not a good man, or a just man, or even a man who should be allowed to live when so many others have fallen in his place. But he will not allow Ezra Wake to go to the gallows. Not when there is anything he can do about it.

            _I am the captain and you are my crew_.

            _Mine_ , James had said against his mouth, making Ezra shake and hold him close.

            “Move, you selfish prick,” James snarls at himself, and he does.

           

As Marcus pounds down the road beneath him, James realizes something.

            He is not doing this to atone for the past.

            He had this choice to make before, and he chose poorly, yes. But this is not about correcting that.

            This is about Ezra Wake. This is about a man who does not fear him. This is about the man who holds his eyes when he uses the word ‘affection.’ A man who threw clothes at his feet like he was a pauper, and who hewed the limbs off his enemies easier than others would put a knife through butter. He is a man who tells stories and loves monsters and plays the violin and who is near impossible to wake and who whispers in James’ ear in a language that he does not understand. He is a man who has done horrible things and who is creator and creation and who willingly stood to answer for his crimes when another was threatened. He is a man unbowed. He is a man who lives without shame.

            And right now he is in a _cage_.

            Gritting his teeth, James spurs Marcus on.

            Overhead, the sky has darkened with clouds. It feels like a storm may be coming, filling the air with tension. A breeze suddenly whips through the trees. To the west, the sky is turning red.

            It is a night for terrible deeds.

            He hears the dog far behind him, barking. James could not exactly carry Black Shuck on the horse with him. Marcus would have lost his mind. Instead, Black Shuck races after them.

            The sword bounces at his side. He has not wielded it before for more than a minute. Ezra is so protective of the thing. He would put his violin in James’ hand before the sword.

            Well. That is about to change.

            _The soul of man does violence to itself, first of all, when it becomes an abscess and, as it were, a tumour on the universe, so far as it can._

            “For to be vexed at anything which happens is a separation of ourselves from nature, in some part of which the natures of all other things are contained,” James whispers. “Fuck it.”

            He flies past the edge of town, then drags Marcus to a stop. The horse screeches, rearing up on his back legs. The centre has mostly cleared, but there are still some villagers who linger at its far edges.

            The wagon sits outside Fraser’s office, guarded by two men, who have startled at James’ appearance. They straighten, hands going to their weapons as Marcus drops down, tossing his mane back.

            James throws his leg over the horse, jumping to the ground. Focused on his target, he walks across the ground, and whatever he has been the last year slips away. There is only one person who can do this, and he has hauled himself out of the water and back into the boat. His hand wraps around the hilt of the blade at his side.

            The young man closest to him swallows, coming to stand between him and the wagon. “Sir—I must ask you to stay back—“

            He draws the katana, hearing the sound the metal makes against the lacquer. Faintly, he remembers that he should hold it with two hands.

            The young soldier falls back a step, and pulls his sword. “Sir—I must ask you to—“

            Both hands on the blade, James spins and puts his full strength behind the blow. The katana shears right through the soldier’s blade and lodges in the man’s neck.

            Someone screams and James is splattered with blood.

_The soul does violence to itself when it turns away from any man, or even moves towards him with the intention of injuring, such as are the souls of those who are angry._

            The second man is running at him as James dislodges the sword from the young man’s throat. This time, he uses it one handed, as he is accustomed to. He slices into the man’s sword arm so deeply that it nearly severs it, and as he whips the katana back, he cuts the man’s stomach open, insides slithering out.

            People begin to run out of Fraser’s office. He does not care. This is like coming home.

_In the third place, the soul does violence to itself when it is overpowered by pleasure or by pain._

            He does not slow, as he passes the wagon, merely asks the soldiers, “Who has the key?”

            The men have bottled up in the door in shock, but the first one out draws his sword and runs down the steps. James does not lessen his pace.

            _Fourthly, when it plays a part, and does or says anything insincerely and untruly._

There is nothing insincere about what he does. He kills the third man without breaking a sweat, grabbing his opponent’s sword hand and driving his blade into the soldier’s heart. He looks right into the man’s shocked eyes, light fading from them, and demands, “Who has the key?”

            He hears Fraser cry out, “Jesus God—“

            A fourth man comes for him, but James is still up to the hilt in the third. He swings the body off his blade at the man, startling him. Whirling around, he brings the sword down on the back of the man’s neck, so smoothly the head rolls away before the body slumps to the ground.

            People are screaming. James does not hear them. Not really.

            Is he even James right now?

            No. Probably not.

            The fifth man is struggling with a flintlock, and the sixth—the smug bastard—is coming at him with his blade. James ducks out of his way, slamming an elbow up against his head, and races up the stairs to grab the one with the pistol.

            The damn things only work half the time, but no reason to chance it. He grabs the top, jerking it to the side as the man fires. And fire it does, the shot disappearing somewhere across the center. More shrieking, but James only sees the soldier’s terrified face.

            He throws the man down the stairs, tossing the pistol aside. He can feel blood dripping down his face, sliding into the collar of his shirt and mingling with his sweat.

            Facing the two soldiers, both with swords drawn, he says, “Which of you has the key to the wagon?”

            They say nothing, and he steps towards them.

            There is a sudden, terrible pain across the back of his head, and he falters. Stars spring up behind his eyes, and his knees start to go. A single word floats across his dazed mind.

            _Alastair_.

            Fury raises up, overpowering everything else. He turns, knowing the other men are coming for him. Fraser holds a large rock in his hand, looking at James with no remorse.

            He is dizzy. He is going to drop.

            He is going to fail.

            Again.

            Oh God, not again.

            There is a snarl, and a screech, and James hears one of the soldiers go down.

            He grins.

            Throwing out his arm, he slices Fraser indiscriminately, not seeing what happens, just needing him taken care of. There are more important things.

            Turning, he sees Black Shuck’s jaws fastened around the fifth man’s throat, wringing him relentlessly to and fro, blood spraying through the air. The dog looks every bit the wild animal that inhabits half of his body. The smug soldier has fallen on his backside in shock, face splattered with red, scrambling for his sword.

            Still feeling his vision waver, James pushes with his feet. He falls, yes, but he falls onto the smug soldier.

            There is a moment, just a moment, where they grapple. But James has no doubt as to who will win.

            The golem has risen.

            He slams the hilt of the sword into the man’s face, hearing bone crumple. He has been here before. Of yes. He has been here before. Without benefit of sword. And this sword—it is a beauty, but he does not need it. Not really.

            One hand to the man’s throat, he punches him in the face until the man is dead. It is an easy thing.

            He has been here before.

            When the thing under him is just jerking, not actually alive anymore, James lets it go. He sits up, vision clearing.

            He looks over at Black Shuck, who sits patiently beside the corpse of the soldier with his throat torn out. Gore covers the dog’s snout. The animal awaits instruction.

            “Good dog,” James says.

_Fifthly, when it allows any act of its own and any movement to be without an aim, and does anything thoughtlessly and without considering what it is, it being right that even the smallest things be done with reference to an end._

An aim, he has had. Thoughtless, perhaps. Considered, maybe not explicitly, but he has done it for love of Ezra Wake.

            “What have you done?”

            James looks over. Fraser is sprawled at the bottom of the steps. His hand clenches his bleeding shoulder. He glares at James in disbelief.

            “What have you _done_?” Fraser demands.

            The monster slips back in, and a moment later, James is back on his feet. He grabs Fraser by the front of his shirt and throws him up against the nearest flat surface, which is the wagon. Fraser gasps in shock, but James is too livid to think clearly.

            “You’d have let them take him,” James hisses. “You faithless son of a whore, after all he’s done for this town, you would have just let them—“

His vision blurs with rage, and he presses the blade against Fraser’s neck, into his wrinkled skin, hating him as much as he has ever hated anything, and he is so fucking pleased by the weak sound the old man makes. The monster knows what must be done. It is why he came out of the water.

            “Everything he’s done, and you would let them take him, you would just—I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you, I _trusted_ you—“

            He leans into the blade.

            _Please_. _Stop_.

            Distantly, he hears a voice.

            There are hands on his.

            Someone is speaking to him. Someone is saying his name.

            “Stop, James, stop, I mean it, James _McGraw_ , I told you to stop, James, stop it, _stop_ —James, _STOP_!”

            He looks up, startled.

            Ezra is gazing at him with pleading eyes. He has reached through the bars, trying to tug at James’ hands, to get him to lower the blade.

            When he sees that he has James’ attention, some of the panic goes out of his voice. “James—my James. Matok—I beg of you. I beg of you, don’t.”

            “He betrayed you,” James says hollowly.

            “No. He’s not like us. It’s not his fault. He’s our friend. James, yakiri, my James, please. Please, leave him be. He’s our friend, and we are the monsters, not him. Leave him be.”

            Fraser sucks in a breath, and James looks down at him. Anger floods back in at the sight of the miserable, ugly old man.

            “If you kill him, I won’t go with you.”

            James raises his eyes.

            Ezra shakes his head. “We have to leave this place. We cannot stay here. But if you kill him, you will not see me again. Not ever again, James. You’re mine, and I’m yours, but I belong to the James who’d never kill an old man just because he was scared for his town. I understand why Alastair did what he did, and I don’t blame him. But if you kill him, I’ll never forgive you.”

            He cannot just let Fraser go. It is not in him.

            Ezra squeezes his wrists. “Matok,” he whispers. “You know what the letter said. It’s just words, James, but you know what it says. Don’t make me leave you, matok. Please. We’ve only just found one another.” Ezra sounds so frightened. Ezra never sounds frightened. Not really. “James. My James.”

            Never again.

            James loosens his grip.

            Ezra slumps with relief, and James can tell that Ezra was as uncertain as he if Fraser would live. Ezra puts his hands on Fraser’s shoulders, pushing him firmly. “Run, Alastair. Run now.”

            The old man wavers on his feet, then limps away. James wants to retch at the loss. He still wants to cut the man’s heart out.

            But Ezra is reaching for him. There is no time to waste, but James cannot help himself. He steps closer, lowering his head into Ezra’s hands.

            For a moment he wants to be ill. He came so close to losing Ezra. Now that he has a second to consider it, he thinks it might have killed him.

            He closes his eyes as Ezra brushes a deliberate thumb over his forehead. When he raises his eyes, Ezra is smiling slightly. “There,” the black eyed man whispers. “Golem no more.” James lets out a sick little laugh. He is trembling. Sometimes it is like that after a fight. Ezra swallows, and says tightly, “If that’s taken care of, could you _please_ get me out of this fucking thing?”

            “Which of them has the key?”

            “James, you don’t need a key.” Ezra nods downwards.

            Of course. Bloody fool.

            James walks to the back of the wagon. In doing so, he finds that at least half the village stands at a distance, watching with horrified shock. He ignores them. They are not his concern for the moment. Both hands on the handle, he takes aim, then raises the sword above his head.

            With one hard blow, he cuts the lock off the back of the wagon.

            Ezra shoves the doors open, taking a shaky breath. James grabs him around the waist with his left arm, lifting him up and out. Once Ezra’s feet are on the ground, James leans down to look in his eyes. “All right?”

            “Rather dramatic,” Ezra responds, straightening his shirt, which James has of course just bloodied. Ezra glances around, seeing the gaze of his neighbours. They look at him as if he is a stranger. If Ezra is hurt by it, he does not let on. “There are some things I cannot leave in the shop.”

            “You have five minutes,” James says, moving to cover him with his sword. “Take Shuck.”

            He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles as Ezra scrambles towards the apothecary. Marcus comes galloping to him, and James catches the reins with his hands. He keeps the reins in one hand, the sword in the other, holding an unblinking eye on the villagers, who seem too shocked to do anything but stare.

            A few minutes later, Ezra emerges with a full bag. James prompts him up onto the saddle, which Ezra eagerly climbs.

            James takes a moment, looking at the citizens of The Edge. He sees Fraser standing off to the side with Lizzy, a hand pressed to his shoulder. He looks dazed and sick. He should just be damned grateful he still draws breath.

            He sees Tess O’Donnell, who has pulled Milly Smithe’s head down on her shoulder, and she’s gazing at James as if she is entirely unsurprised. And he sees Will Fredericks, who gives him a slight tilt of the head. He sees many familiar faces, all of whom look at him as if he is the most unfamiliar thing to walk the earth.

            Raising his voice, James announces, “Listen very carefully. We are _leaving_. We will need twelve hours, and then we will be gone. Mark me, and mark me well, though—if anyone dares get in our way—man, woman, _child_ —I will cut their fucking throat. If I hear that a one of you tried to reach the outside before us, I will find you, and I will cut off your hands. Your feet. I will cut out your tongue. Then I will find the people who you love, and I’ll do the same to them. So I dare you—try and stop us.”

            He turns, and Fraser says hoarsely, “Who the hell are you?”

            James looks back at him. “I’m the second most dangerous man alive.”

            Then he climbs onto the horse behind Ezra, and they make their escape.

 

The books are off the walls.

            That is what makes this all real. It is not the events of last night, or the knowledge that their neighbours might be plotting their grim demise a mile away, or that somewhere there are more bodies, always more fucking bodies.

            No. It is the fact that the books are off the shelves. That is what makes this whole horrible situation real.

            “Ezra?”

            He turns, arms wrapped around his journal. James stands in the doorway, a strange mixture of caution and concern on his face. It is an unfamiliar look for him. They are both exhausted, and still face God knows how many days on the road. The events of the last day have done away with some of the barriers left between them, though that could definitely be a lack of sleep.

            “I know,” Ezra says softly.

            He looks back at his house, unable to shake the melancholy. All the objects truly important to him, he has salvaged. The books, the buttons Burial gave him as a parting gift, a piece of the _Golem_ ’s hull, his violin, his surgical instruments, as many bottles and remedies as he could get his hands on. His things and the money sit in the back of the wagon out front, with James’ few possessions, waiting for their departure.

            The furniture all has to stay, save, blessedly, the little cabinet James gave him. Ezra will not part with it. Anything more, though, and it would be too much weight for the horses to bear. So the shelves stay. His chairs, that he mended so carefully over and over again. The bed, where he has lain so many times with James.

            This was the first home of his own. His very own. The last house he had was his and Henry’s. There was something special about this place. Everything was completely to his liking, everything was his and his alone.

            Such things are not meant to last.        

            He lowers his head a moment as James strokes a hand down his spine. Ezra holds the journal tighter, knowing he is being sentimental. He knows it is a strange quality for a killer to have, but he has always been a man of many different persuasions.

            Taking a deep breath, he says quietly, “You knew I killed Ned Smithe.”

            After a few seconds, James answers, “Yes.”

            Ezra looks up at him. “How long have you known?”

            Lifting a shoulder, James says, “It occurred to me in early spring. How close an eye you kept on them. I knew it was not because you were sleeping with Milly, after all.” Ezra smiles faintly, but without any mirth. “I asked about the timing of his sickness after her injury. I know how you are about the people in your care.”

            “I don’t care for men who prey on people weaker than they are,” Ezra says coldly. “He came to me with a broken finger, James. A broken finger, after he nearly killed his wife, after he tried to ruin that child. He came to me with a broken _finger_. And no one else would have done a damned thing.” He sighs. “And yet—here we are.”

            His neighbours have turned against him. Against them both. He wondered if this day would come. It has always been a possibility, from the day he crept into their ranks, posing as one of them. Pretending to be normal. For all his confident talk about not hiding, Ezra has hid in this place, hid himself, for over four years. And he liked it.

            He has liked his neighbours. He has loved his neighbours. He loves this place, and its rhythms, and its ways. He meant to spend the rest of his life here.

            But it is not to be. Best that men and monsters not mix too closely.

            “Time to go,” Ezra whispers.

            He pulls a flint from his pocket, walking over to his favourite chair. With a few sparks, he sets it alight. So much time building up a life, and all it takes is a few seconds to destroy it.

            But still….

            He would do it again. He would kill Ned Smithe. He would keep those girls alive. He would stand and admit his crime freely to keep an innocent woman from hanging, even if it meant climbing into that cage.

            _What is the right path a man should choose? Whatever is honorable to himself, and honorable in the eyes of others._

            He has stayed true to himself. The opinions of others do not concern him—save one.

            When he has set fire to several spots around the house, he puts the flint away, then goes back to James. The whole time, the tall, red haired man has watched solemnly, unblinking. When Ezra walks to him, though, he holds out an arm.

            Ezra presses against his side, letting James guide him outside and down the steps. He can hear the crackle of flame behind himself. This was his home. It will end as he sees fit.

            As they reach the wagon, Ezra pauses. James, to his credit, does not ask what his problem is, or why he delays. He merely waits for Ezra to speak.

            “I do not like that we leave Cu Sith,” Ezra admits, knowing he is being ridiculous. He can see that James thinks he is being ridiculous, and prepares himself for mockery.

            Except James bends down slightly, and says, “What do you think she would want for you?”

            Ezra has chosen well. He tried to fight it, God knows he did, but in the end, a man who understands the love he has for his dogs—well, it simply could not be avoided. No matter the hold the past might have on him.

            “She would want me to be safe,” Ezra says.

            “Precisely.” James steps aside. “Now get your bony ass up on that wagon.”

            The corners of his mouth flicker upwards a moment, and Ezra does as he is told.

            In a moment, Black Shuck has nuzzled up to his side. His nose is still all covered in blood, but it is an oversight they shall have to deal with later. James walks around the front of the wagon, giving Kelpie and Marcus a pat in turn. It is going to be a strange journey, with that mismatched pair dragging them across the mountains.

            Climbing up onto the seat, James moves close to him, picking up the reins. “Ready?”

            That he asks is further confirmation of what Ezra already knows. Sometimes a choice comes, and one has to choose between two lives, because a person cannot have everything they desire. It is not the way of the world. The trick is in knowing which treasure is more precious. He can stay and live a lie amongst many, or he can live and be honest—completely honest—with one.

            Fingers curling around his journal, Ezra says, “Yes. I rather think that I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends Part Four: Summer.


	29. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the close.  
> If I started to say all the things I really wanted to about you folks, I don't know that I would ever finish. Black Sails readers are unlike any that I've come across before. Your generosity, your engagement, your cleverness, your multipart comments, are all unparalleled. Each of you are gems, and I am grateful for every single one of you.  
> As always, if you need to find me, I'm on Tumblr at e-sebastian.tumblr.com, and yes, I know I was able to make a link to that beautiful moodboard, but there's something about my address that completely defies all efforts to embed a link to it. Copy and paste, friends.  
> So I suppose there's only one last thing to say, and I think we all know how small words can be. Nonetheless, here it is:  
> Thank you.

_September 21, 1721_

_Today we go to sea_.

 

He stands on the deck, the breeze moving over his short hair. The wind fills his nostrils with the scent of salt. All around him, the creaking of rope, the yells of hard men, the lap of the water, they sound around him, and it feels like coming home.

            James opens his eyes. It is a beautiful grey day. Might storm later. Means plenty of wind.

            It is peculiar to find, at his age, that he might be becoming an optimist.

            Unlikely. It is just to be on a vessel again, to be preparing for a journey across the ocean, that pleases him so.

            Hands behind his back, he stands tall and straight, gazing over the number of ships that fill the harbour of New York. Every day since they arrived here, he has come down to the docks, taking in the sights, letting the sea put its claws into him once more.

            Sensing eyes upon him, James turns. He finds Ezra’s gaze from where he has emerged, just outside the captain’s cabin. James smiles, and Ezra gives a small smile in return. It is the most he has given James in days. Raising a brow, James begins to cross the deck to him.

            Of course Ezra has been out of sorts since they left The Edge. It was his home, and they had to flee it under less than ideal circumstances, though James has to wonder if anyone ever flees anything under ideal circumstances. Ezra has said little about it, though, preferring to write in his journal and note every new thing they came across as they travelled from Portsmouth to New York, thanks to the machinations of one Mr. McCormick.

            It is thanks to the one legged man from the Portsmouth dock that they have this chance. James explained as much as he could about the situation, and where they intended to go—Ezra’s choice, of course, because James had no idea where they ought to end up—and Mr. McCormick began putting things in order. Two days later, James found himself captain of a ship for one haul across the Atlantic, so long as they could get to New York in time.

            Ezra stands with crossed arms as people move about him, the breeze blowing his hair back from his face. Seeing him like this, on a ship, with his strange beauty, James is briefly overcome with want for the man, even if Ezra is clearly unimpressed.

            Reaching him, James asks, “What precisely is your problem?”

            Ezra says bluntly, “I hate the fucking sea.”

            James smirks, feeling just a touch bad for it. Ezra never meant to be on the ocean in the first place, and swore up and down that he would not again. “Could be worse, Mr. Birch.”

            “That’s all right for you to say, Mr. Marcus,” Ezra responds. He looks James up and down. “This is a homecoming for you.”

            James is dressed in black breeches and jacket over a crisp white shirt. It is the most comfortable in his own skin that he has felt in some time. He feels that he _looks_ like himself again. Just being on the ship—God, it is intoxicating. He told Ezra that it was just the one job, that he meant to be a carpenter when they reached Amsterdam, but Ezra gave him a look and muttered, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

            Trying to console him, James says, “Are you not a little bit cheered that we sail on the _Miriam_?”

            “I’m thrilled that the ship has a Jewish name. None of these fools realize that’s what it is, though.”

            James cannot help himself. He slips an arm around Ezra’s back, jostling him, and Ezra obviously tries not to be cheered by it. They are amongst people who do not give a damn about their proclivities. The first mate, Jansson, is quite blatant about his relationship with the cabin boy. Everyone else has their own sins. They keep their mouths shut. Ezra obviously likes to be public in their affections, and it is one of the sure-fire ways to get him to chin up.

            “Are you going to be this miserable the entire journey, Mr. Birch?” James asks.

            “Perhaps.”

            After a moment’s thought, a crease appears between James’ brows. “I’m sorry.”

            Ezra turns to him, confused. “Whatever for?”

            James glances away with a grimace. They still do not try and wrap one another up in words. After all, they have proven themselves to one another with deeds—as Ezra says, ‘Emor me’ât ve’aseh harbe.’ But sometimes…sometimes words should be said.

            “Do you regret having met me?”

            Ezra blinks. “Beg pardon?”

            James’ expression darkens even more, and he completely pulls his arm away. “Oh, for—fuck’s sake, Wake. If I had never shown up, you would have—lived the rest of your life in that place. It was your place, your home. I rather fucked that up for you.”

            “And you want to know if I regret you,” Ezra asks evenly.

            After a pause, James nods once. “I do.”

            He sees Ezra thinking about home. His house. All his things, now in their crates in the hold. The horses they had to sell. His friends. The relationships he cultivated over the course of years. The children he helped bring into the world. The people he helped usher out. The ones he helped gently, and the ones he did with far less kindly measures. He had meant to end his days there.

            Then along came James.

            He raises his head, and his eyes are clear. “No,” Ezra says honestly. “Not for a second.”

            James hopes that his relief is not too obvious, but judging from the look in Ezra’s eyes, it clearly is.

            Cocking his head, Ezra asks, “What about you? Do you regret me?”

            James gives him that roguish grin that seems to scare people, but Ezra simply smiles in return. “Wake—I think you are the only thing in the world that makes me human.”

            “Oh, good. I knew I was here for something.”

            He softens as James hooks an arm around his neck. Leaning against him, James can feel Ezra allow himself to be placated. “Just because I don’t say the word does not mean it is not a truth.” James murmurs against his hair, breathing him in. “After all, I made a promise.”

            Settling, Ezra nods. “Very well. Captain.”

            James snorts. “For all of a few weeks. Then we’ll be in Amsterdam.”

            “Thank God,” Ezra says nakedly.

            “You’ll see all the places from your stories. We’ll see where the rabbi pirate is buried.”

            “You’re damned right we shall.”

            James laughs at Ezra’s consternation, and squeezes his shoulder. “Try not to be so unhappy, Mr. Birch. It’ll give you wrinkles.”

            He gives Ezra’s forehead a quick kiss before walking away. Ezra calls after him, “You’d know all about it, old man.”

            James casts him a look over his shoulder, then is off to confer with the boatswain.

            Ezra will be fine. It is never an easy thing, moving from one life to the next, one world to the next. But of anyone alive, James knows no one more adaptable. Besides, setting Ezra loose in one of the world’s most liberal cities? He is going to have to race to keep up with the man.

            They will manage.   

            James walks the ship, familiarizing himself further with the small sloop. Their cargo is of little concern to anyone. Papers. He has no idea what for. Honestly, he does not care. Whatever will get them to Amsterdam in one piece.

            Besides, he would like to see the ship that tried to raise the black or red against James McGraw and Ezra Wake.

            It is nearly time.

            His stomach pulls with anticipation. This is for what he was made, after all.

            _Carpenter_ , he has to remind himself. _Cabinet maker_. He can practically see Ezra raising a single brow in his mind’s eye, can almost hear him murmuring, ‘Mm hm.’

            But that is yet to come. Weeks away. He will worry about it when they come to it.

            Jansson limps over to him. He is a few years younger than James, but already seems too old for this life. James feels like he is just getting started. Again. Was he not thinking just a short time ago that he was getting too old for second chances?

            Jansson opens his mouth to ask something, and James knows what it will be. He is going to ask for orders, and James will give them. It is as it should be.

            Before he can, a note rises through the air, and he turns around.

            Ezra stands at the stern, below the mizzen mast. His violin is secured between his chin and shoulder, and he draws the bow across the strings that James bought for him.

            He plays ‘Haul on the Bowline.’

            After a moment, he looks up, catching James’ eyes. He smiles slightly, then turns his attention to Black Shuck. The both of them move in circles, amusing one another, as every man on the ship pauses to take in the sight of them, and the music that sings up to the heavens.

            James’ mouth has pulled into a smile. Not the grin that makes grown men recoil. The smile that is only for Ezra Wake.

            James says, “Raise sails.”

            The men climb the rigging as Ezra plays, the sails unfurl, the anchor is raised, and the vessel slices into the water. Ezra segues into song after song, watching James, James watching back as they move out through the waves, out to sea and sky.

            Time for a new life. But not alone this time.

            It is never too late for second chances. He will not doubt again.


End file.
